


The First Movement

by DaniBee



Series: Second Chance Sonata [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Classical Music, Coming Out, Friendship, M/M, Music, Music school AU, Obliviousness, Panic Attack, Pining, Thanksgiving, god help us all, mentions of bullying, mentions of drug overdose, pianist and composer Jack, recollections of assault and homophobia, the healing power of pumpkin spice lattes, violinist Bitty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:59:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaniBee/pseuds/DaniBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Playing the violin is as deeply essential to Eric R. Bittle as baking pies and taking care of the people he loves. But when an incident when he was 12 years old makes performing onstage impossible for him, Eric forces himself to give up his dreams of studying music, enrolls in Georgia Southern University after high school, and tries his best to pretend that he isn't miserable and lonely and unfulfilled. The only real bright spot in his life as a freshman is when he makes his youtube videos where he plays violin covers of his favorite songs and mashups of classical music and the latest hits.</p><p>Someone in the admissions department of Samwell Arts Institute finds Eric's youtube channel, decides that <em>yeah, this ridiculous blond boy with a southern twang and zero compunctions about vandalizing Vivaldi is Samwell material right here</em> and offers him a shot at going after what he really wants. It's a second chance at his musical dreams for Eric. Then he actually gets to Samwell, meets the zany group of friends living at The Haus, and realizes that it might also be a chance for something more.</p><p>
  <strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE (APR. 2, 2016): This week's update delayed. Please see Ch. 8 end notes.</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh lord. Okay. So I've been living with this AU inside my head for a long-ass time and I was DEALING WITH IT, okay, but then along came that music school AU/headcanon post (you know the one) that's been making the rounds on all the OMGCP tumblrs I lurk about and I just. I wanted SO BADLY to talk about this but like, I had no tumblr? Or fandom presence of any kind? And I'm an occasional askbox anon but even _I_ thought sending like twenty consecutive asks about this to some poor innocent blogger might be _just a tad_ excessive. So then this happened. Posting this may be the most terrifying thing I've ever done, and I've legit once used a python as a scarf.
> 
> Anyhoo, three things:
> 
> 1\. This is an AU, so obviously lots of things will be different, but a really big change is the timeline. Bitty is a year late coming to Samwell (as a transfer student), so he comes in with the frogs, and Jack and Shitty are already seniors by the time he gets there. Part 1 will be fall semester, part 2 will be spring semester, and part 3 will be the epilogue. I'm tagging this pre-slash for now because we aren't there yet. But we _will_ get there! As if I would let this story end without boys kissing lol.
> 
> 2\. Speaking of getting there, I plan to update at least once a week, and I'm almost done with the first part, but it still needs some work. I solemnly swear that I will not leave this unfinished. I need this universe to exist.
> 
> 3\. All the disclaimers. Just… _all_ of them: no beta, no experience writing fic, no musical expertise, no idea what I'm actually doing. So. This is gonna be fun. :)

“Hey, y’all! I’m baaaack! Some of my more adept followers may have noticed a change in location and are wondering what’s up—and I can finally tell you! Remember a few months ago when I was kinda worryin’ about a decision that I had to make? Well, I did it _! I transferred to Samwell Arts Institute._ Wow. Still feels unreal to say that. But they offered me a scholarship—can you believe it? Which one of y’all sent them a link to this vlog? I’m still in shock. Whoever it was, _thank you_. So much. Gotta admit, I was all shook up at first, when I got Samwell’s email just out of the blue like that. But y’all probably could tell that I wasn’t really all that happy there at GSU…so I took the plunge! Now here I am doing the whole new student thing again, with a new dorm room and new, well, everything. Gosh. I hope it works out better this time. On that note, here’s a cover y’all keep requesting…”

Eric picks up his violin and bow, takes a deep breath, and releases the jittery tension in his nerves into Vienna Teng’s _Level Up_. It’s hard not to hear the lyrics in his head as he plays, and he gives himself over, lets the music flow from the strings to his shoulders to his spine and lend him the steel and resolve he so desperately needs.

_Call it any name you need._

_Call it your 2.0, your rebirth, whatever—_

_So long as you can feel it all,_

_So long as all your doors are flung wide._

_Call it your day number one in the rest of forever._

No more wimping out, Eric Richard Bittle, he reminds himself. Be braver this time.

 

* * *

 

 

 _No more_ _wimping out_ , Eric realizes, is a fine thing to declare when the sun is shining on your gorgeous new college campus and you’re still riding on the high of your mama’s proud and excited chatter just before she hugs you goodbye. When you’re still charmed-slash-confused by the aggressively warm welcome from your new RA (a senior voice major who might have time traveled from the 80’s, mustache and all), distracted by fixing up your room, then immersed in an impromptu vlogging session, it’s easier to convince yourself of your own courage. But at nearly two in the morning, clutching his ragged little bunny to his chest while staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling from an unfamiliar bed, Eric Bittle feels that his new motto “be braver” sounds about as achievable as “be Beyoncé.”

“We’re gonna be okay, Señor Bun,” he murmurs into the quiet. When that only makes him feel ridiculous, he sighs and decides to get up. Anything is preferable to just lying there wallowing in his doubts. Shitty—lord, he is never gonna get used to calling his RA that—assured him that he had 24/7 access to the kitchen, but it had seemed rude to start inspecting all its nooks and crannies right then and there, so Eric had restrained himself during the tour. Now’s as good a time as any, Eric reasons, to check if the kitchen cabinets have room for his stuff. He’ll wait until tomorrow to take his boxes down, but it wouldn’t do any harm to look, right?

Slipping his keys into the pocket of his shorts, Eric fumbles for his slippers and quietly pads out into the dimly lit hallway and down the stairs. Shitty said he was the first to arrive, but that some other residents were also due that evening. Eric had been so engrossed in video editing with his headphones on that he might have missed any arrivals, but if they’re here, he doesn’t want to wake them up and be a nuisance on his first night. With room for only eight residents at a time, Spencer Hall is really more of a house than a dorm (“We just call it _The Haus_ , brah, and you shall henceforth be known as a hausmate”), a renovated two-story residence where former university presidents used to live. So Eric can’t exactly escape notice like he’d tried to do back in his GSU dorm last year. Not that he had _wanted_ to do that back then, no. His invisible man impression had been a matter of self-preservation and not desire...but there’s no need to dwell on the past now. Samwell is a fresh start, a fresh start that comes with a private room that he can afford because the scholarship made his tuition fund redundant, _plus he has a kitchen_. A kitchen that he’s going to explore if he can only remember the layout of the first floor with all the lights turned off, Eric thinks, when he gets to the bottom of the stairs.

Wishing that he had his phone with him for some illumination, Eric tries to recall Shitty’s (possibly stoned) tour. Had it included the location of any light switches? He’s so focused on groping along the nearest wall and willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness that it takes him a while to register that he’s hearing music. Soft piano music, low enough that he wouldn’t have heard it on the second floor, coming from somewhere in the darkness. For a second he wonders if he had stumbled into a ghost story, then scoffs at himself for being so silly. Didn’t Shitty mention a rehearsal room down here? Someone else must be having trouble sleeping, just like him.

Curious now, Eric follows the music to its source. The composition is unfamiliar to him, but there’s something compelling about it, impossible to ignore. He wanders closer and closer, pulled in by the melody, until he comes to a closed door with a bit of light shining out from under it. There’s a wide glass window in the adjacent wall, but tightly closed blinds keep him from seeing into the room, though he can hear the music clearly enough. Eric just stands there, transfixed.

The melody is captivating. Complex and contradicting, like it’s struggling against itself, asking questions that are only answered by more questions, with a thread of exhausted confusion weaving all throughout. Eric feels utterly unprepared for it, for the way the music catches and tugs at that place in his chest that clenches painfully each time he asks himself if he really deserves this second chance. It’s the same place that tightens in panic whenever he thinks of performing onstage, the same hurt he tries to appease by playing for his vlog which is fun in its own way but not enough, not ever enough. The music flows from behind the door into the cracks inside Eric that he came to Samwell to heal, and it hits too close to home, but Eric can’t tear himself away. It’s cathartic, somehow, the way the best kind of music always is. Maybe he can just sit here on the floor, just for a minute or two, make himself comfortable, listen just a bit longer. He can find the kitchen a little later—it's not going anywhere—but for now, the music's still playing, still holding him in its grip, so Eric decides to stay.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Eric is aware of upon suddenly waking up is a shocked voice coming from somewhere above him, cursing in a language that doesn't sound like English. The second thing he realizes is that said person is alarmed because he tripped over Eric--oh _god_ \--he _tripped over Eric_ because Eric is lying curled up on the damn floor where he'd just fallen asleep (!!!) like a homeless person or a lost little kitten with no mama. _Lord_. Now would be a good time for the earth to open wide and swallow him up, seriously, he's already down here, it wouldn't take much.

“What—“

“I’m not homeless!” Eric yelps, still on the floor, looking up at the pale, shocked face illuminated by the glow from the now open room. He hurriedly gets up. “I mean, I know I seem like a homeless person, sleeping on the floor and all, but I live here, honest, my name is Eric Bittle, you can ask, um, the guy named Shitty? He said his name was Shitty, but that might be a joke? Or a prank, I don’t know, it just seems really strange. I just moved in, and I couldn’t sleep, so I went looking for the kitchen, because baking, I like to bake. I mean, I wasn’t planning on baking in the middle of the night, although I actually do that someti—but that’s not the point! The point is, I came down here, and I heard you playing, and I liked it, I really liked it a lot, so I wanted to listen some more, and then I fell asleep. On the floor. Like an idiot. I am so, _so_ sorry. I hope I didn’t give you a heart attack. Not that you look like you could get a heart attack! I mean you’re obviously very, um…fit. Healthy! Oh dear lord. But really, I live here, I promise. My name is Eric. I guess I already said that. Sorry. Again.”

The guy just keeps staring at him for an endless moment until Eric starts to wonder if he should sit back down on the floor, given how all of his blood seems to have rushed to his face and he isn’t sure his legs will hold him up any longer. Then—

“It’s not a prank.”

“…Um. Beg your pardon?

“Shitty.  That’s actually his name. Well. That’s what we call him.”

“Oh. Okay.” He doesn’t sound angry. Eric can breathe again. In fact, now that he can see that the guy doesn’t seem inclined to call campus security on him, Eric is distracted from his panic by a niggling sense of recognition for his slowly relaxing (actually kind of handsome) face. “Good. That it wasn’t a prank, I mean. He said it was _Haus tradition_ , the nicknames. He said mine would be Bitty.”

“Do you…not want to be called Bitty?” The guy seems to be mostly over the shock by now, though still trying to catch up with the admittedly weird situation.

“No, no, I don’t mind at all!” Eric rushes to say, not wanting to chase away the hesitant friendliness from the guy’s (strangely familiar, really actually very handsome) face. "It’s kinda nice, to be honest, having a fun college nickname. In my old school…well. Never you mind. Do _you_ have a nickname? What should I call you?”

“Uh, you can just call me—“

“Oh my god.” It suddenly clicks. “Oh my god, you’re _Jack Zimmermann_.”

 

 

 **@omgcheckplease:** Is there something worse than putting your foot in your mouth? Maybe both feet, an entire leg? Bc lord help me, I may have done just that.

3:21 AM – 18 Aug 2014

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's how Bitty meets Jack. *jazz hands*
> 
> Lord, I have so many random bits of backstory for this universe and no place to share them, but I'm gonna try to restrain myself to this friendly reminder:
> 
> Everything I know about classical music and/or music schools come from that one Hilary Duff movie called Raise Your Voice, copious amounts of googling, and that one time when I pestered music majors on reddit to tell me about their lives for the purposes of this fic. Research! 
> 
> So, given how utterly unqualified I am to write about this stuff (like, four people tried to teach me to play the guitar in my lifetime, and they all failed), allow me to make a request: from here on out, JUST GO WITH IT. 'Kay? It'll all be just fine.
> 
> Next up: Jack's backstory. Well, some of it. And Bitty makes new friends.
> 
> Oh, and P.S.
> 
> Apologies to any readers who go to GSU. I'm sure y'all are lovely, but our Bitty had a homophobic roommate, was uncomfortable with how many people from his hometown share that campus (given how he's still not out to his parents), and--most importantly--he wasn't pursuing the life he really wanted. So he had a terrible time there, but I literally picked that university off of a Wikipedia list of schools in Georgia, so. No offense meant.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all the comments! They're the direct reason I'm posting this chapter earlier than planned (supposedly this weekend to give myself time to brood over it some more), but your excitement is infectious and I'm gaining more confidence. You're the Shitty to my Bitty, you guys—a true source of affirmation. Thank you! <3

 

 

 

 

 

 

> **Lost Prodigy, Found in Samwell: The Return of Jack Zimmermann**
> 
> By Meredith Hunt Aug 2011
> 
>  
> 
> Some might scoff that the only qualifications to write for _The Swallow_ are an ear for gossip and a shameless appreciation for Samwell’s sexiest butts. But those people are not only pretentious killjoys—they’re also _wrong_. (Writer’s opinions are personal and do not represent this publication’s official stance. –Ed.) We’re not lacking for culture over here. In fact, when reports came that a certain freshman has been creating major buzz over at the Arts Institute—particularly in the School of Music—all by his mere presence, this writer’s ears perked up because _hey—I know that name!_
> 
> Jack Laurent Zimmermann, dear readers, is a pretty unforgettable name for those of us who aren’t heathens and like to listen to classical music every now and then. (Again, _The Swallow_ isn’t actually calling anyone a heathen. Officially. –Ed.) This remarkable Canadian wunderkind spent his childhood sweeping awards at prestigious musical competitions (his first major win being the International Tchaikovsky Competition for Young Musicians where he won the gold for piano in 1997 at only seven years old), giving recitals in venues across North America and Europe, and appearing as featured soloist with notable orchestras such as the Toronto Symphony and even the Vienna Philharmonic, among others. In 2006, at only 16 years of age, Zimmermann and fellow musical overachiever Kent Parson made their concert debut at Carnegie Hall as a piano and violin powerhouse duo, which basically left the critics scrambling for superlatives and clamoring for more. They then went on a worldwide tour the next year, playing to enraptured audiences until their sold out grand finale in the Concert Hall of the Sidney Opera House. Each performance was met with critical acclaim, and everyone waited with bated breath for the pair’s next move.
> 
> And then, nothing. Well, not _exactly_ nothing: the violin half of the duo, Kent Parson, is one of the brightest stars in classical music today—seriously, look him up on Wikipedia and make yourself just a little bit less of an uncultured swine ( _Sigh_. –Ed.)—but he and Zimmermann never played together again. Mostly because Zimmermann suddenly dropped off the map. He was just…gone.
> 
> Okay, he wasn’t literally gone. Presumably his parents, the world renowned composer and conductor Robert Zimmermann and multi-awarded Broadway superstar Alicia Prentiss, knew of his whereabouts, but they weren’t telling. Neither was Kent Parson, and the guy’s not known for his reticence about most things. Somehow, the reason for Jack Zimmermann’s sudden and noticeable disappearance from the classical community just as he was the toast of it remains one of the music world’s best kept secrets.
> 
> Naturally, rumors abounded. Some of the theories got pretty wild.
> 
> _Jack Zimmermann overdosed on cocaine._
> 
> _He committed suicide in a hotel room in Manila, and his parents covered it up._
> 
> _Jack Zimmermann eloped with a concert hall usher and is now living in Jamaica._
> 
> _Jack Zimmermann was kidnapped, rescued, then diagnosed with severe PTSD._
> 
> _He does car commercials in Japan._
> 
> Fine, so maybe the last one’s a Mean Girls quote, but for all we know it might be true of Jack Zimmermann, because for about three years no one’s heard so much as a peep out of him. And for such a gifted musician, that’s pretty damn ironic.
> 
> And then he just shows up here at Samwell. All casual, like nobody’s gonna notice.
> 
> Well, _I_ noticed. I noticed so hard that I immediately presented myself at Spencer Hall, more widely known as The Haus, to hopefully _finally_ get some answers. Unfortunately, I encountered a roadblock. John Johnson, one of our reigning _Samwell’s 50 Most Beautiful_ and usually quite accommodating towards  _Swallow_ reporters, refused to let me in, said something about not wanting to rush the narrative, then shut the door in my face.
> 
> Hmm. So apparently there’s something about Jack Zimmermann that makes people willing to keep his secrets.
> 
> No worries, dear readers. Jack Zimmermann will be here for at least four years, and who knows? He might be moved to have a heart-to-heart talk with yours truly one of these days. Stranger things have happened, after all, like long lost musical prodigies turning up with no warning as college freshmen right here in our very own campus.

 

 

Eric closes his “Jack Zimmermann Samwell” search results with a twinge of unease. Years ago he would have told himself it ain't nothing, just like googling any other celebrity, right? Katya had encouraged him to keep up to date with the wider world of contemporary classical music (since small town Georgia wasn’t exactly a hotbed of activity for it), but now it felt a bit stalkery to be looking up a guy who roomed a few feet away from him. Thing is, Eric knew about Jack Zimmermann. Admired him. But around the time he “disappeared,” Eric had been dealing with his own personal crisis, and something about the gifted pianist’s sudden absence from the stage caught his attention. He read the speculations less as a rabidly curious fan and more as a struggling thirteen-year-old boy searching for clues that someone else who obviously loved music as much as he did might possibly understand what Eric was going through. The most beautiful thing in his world had gotten all twisted up with something hurtful and terrifying and _wrong_ , and he’d just wanted to hide himself away. To curl up somewhere away from the world. Could it be that someone else might know how that felt?

But regardless of Eric’s reasons for following the story, nobody had any answers. Then Coach moved the family to Madison, Eric asked his parents not to find him a new music teacher in the new town, and he stopped keeping up to date with the news, thinking he wasn’t ever gonna be a part of that world anyway. Not anymore.

So he was caught completely unaware last night. Last thing he knew, Jack Zimmermann was still missing, so Eric absolutely wasn’t expecting to run into him in a dark hallway at about a quarter past three.

Eric cringes, remembering how Jack’s face had suddenly shut down after his unfiltered outburst. Not that his blasted filter had been present _at all_ last night, but Jack had seemed somewhat okay with it, if a little weirded out, which was fair enough given the erm…circumstances of their meeting. It wasn’t until Eric had acted like a total fanboy that Jack had flinched, all tentative warmth leaching from his expression as he bid Eric a polite but curt good night. Eric had regretted it instantly but Jack was gone before he could even try to take it back, leaving him standing there alone, still too stunned to process everything.

It all just seems so awfully depressing that it’s only his second day here and things are already awkward. So much for fresh starts.

Sighing, Eric stands up from his desk, closes the laptop, and reaches for a box of baking supplies. It’s much too early in the morning and the Haus is quiet, but he doesn’t feel like crawling back to bed, and his usual response to stress is to bake. He’s heading straight for the kitchen this time, no detours.

* * *

 

Eric pops in a second tray of chocolate chip muffins in the oven and leans back against the counter with his coffee. He looks over at the newly cleaned kitchen table where the first batch is currently being devoured by a pair of tall, sleepy, still-nonverbal hausmates who are apparently named Ransom and Holster. He’s not actually sure which ridiculous nickname belongs to which drowsy person, is the thing. They stumbled into the kitchen leaning on each other, mumbled some introductions, then plaintively asked him if he was real of if they were dreaming him and the smell of something delicious that had wafted up into the attic. So Eric fed them, naturally. He assumes that they arrived last night while he had his headphones on, but decides to put off making friendly chitchat until they’re a little more awake. In any case, Eric feels like he’s making a better first impression here, at least. Muffins always help with that.

“Rans, Holtzy, you’re up early.” Shitty makes his entrance, yawning and stretching in nothing more than a pair of Care Bear boxers (nope, Eric’s not asking), just as the second batch is ready. “You’ve already met Bitty, hmm? _Are those muffins?”_

“S’good,” the blond one grunts while taking a giant bite. Eric can’t suppress a chuckle.

Shitty laughs. “Bitty, my man,” he says. “These sleep-deprived fuckers are Holster, our resident percussionist,” he gestures to Big, Blond and Hungry, “and Ransom, who makes sweet, sweet music on the guitar.” Shitty pats the shoulder of Tall, Dark, and Also Hungry, then steals a muffin from his plate. “They drove in late last night with our other hausmate, hence the zombie mode,” he explains, then bites into the muffin. “Goddamn, you motherfuckers, no wonder you sleepwalked your way down here. This is ‘swawesome. You made this, Bits?”

“Yeah, I like to bake,” Eric smiles. “Glad you like them. There’s more if you want,” he says, putting two muffins on a plate and offering it to Shitty.

“You’re a gift from the fucking gods, brah,” he grins, taking the plate and moving to get himself some coffee from the pot. “We haven’t cooked anything but instant ramen and frozen pizza in this kitchen for years. Mmm, so chocolatey. Jack would love these. Wait, where’s Jack?”

Eric tenses, but Shitty’s attention is on Ransom, who sounds more alert when he answers, “Probably still sleeping. He went right down to the music room soon after we arrived. You know he always stays up all night when he gets like that.”

Shitty sighs. “Senior year, man. Messes with your head a bit. Or a lot. A whole fucking lot, actually.”

“Yeah,” Holster says. “Plus Jack’s, you know. _Jack_ ,” he points out, raising an expressive eyebrow.

“Right. On that note, we should probably have the new hausmate talk with Bitty,” Shitty says, sitting down at the table with his muffins and coffee while exchanging significant looks with the other two, completely oblivious to Eric sweating like a sinner in church by the counter. He has a feeling he already knows where this is going. These are Jack Zimmermann’s friends; they seem protective of him, and this is probably gonna be the “don’t freak out over our celebrity hausmate” alert that Eric desperately wishes he’d gotten before last night. Too late now.

“Grab a seat, Bits,” Shitty invites him, and Holster pushes out a chair with his foot. “There’s something you should know before you meet our other bro who lives here.”

“I already met Jack Zimmermann!” Eric blurts, then promptly slaps both hands over his mortified face. He can feel the others’ gazes land instantly on him.

“Oh,” Ransom says, after a short, startled silence.

“Uh, when, bro?” Holster asks. “Shitty said you were already sleeping when we arrived, and your room was quiet when we passed by.”

Eric drags his feet over to the chair, slumping down over the table. “I got up around two,” he confesses to the wooden surface. “Couldn’t sleep, so I went looking for the kitchen.” He doesn’t know how to put the rest into words. _I heard your friend playing in the night and I maybe had an emotional crisis over his music a little bit so I fell asleep on the floor like a stalker hobo who didn’t have the good sense God gave an alley cat. An alley cat would’ve at least tucked itself somewhere out of the way._ That would go over well, for sure.

“And that’s when you ran into Jack?” Shitty prompts.

“…I guess you could say that.” That’s a less crazy way of putting it, so yes.

“I assume you told Jack that you knew who he was?” Shitty prods some more, when it becomes obvious that Eric still hasn’t found more words.

Eric can feel his face heat up at the memory. “Yes,” he sighs. “It was so unexpected; I just kinda blurted it out. He…didn’t seem too happy about it. Not that I blame him! Even prodigies probably don’t expect to be meeting fans in their own home in the wee hours of the night.”

“It’s my bad, bro, I totally should’ve given you a heads up sooner,” Shitty says, patting Eric’s shoulder. “Just try to treat Jack like a normal person from here on out. That’s just who he is anyway, except for the, you know, wicked as fuck musical genius and the occasional man-out-of-time tendencies. Oh yeah, and try not to ask him about his _‘lost years’_ like that dumbass writer at _The Swallow_ calls them. Ever since he showed up here in Samwell, that’s all anyone ever wants to know, and we’re all fucking sick of that shit. He’ll tell you himself if he wants to, but let him make that choice, okay, buddy?”

Eric nods fervently, eyes wide. “Sure, of course, I get it,” he reassures them. “This is his home; I don’t wanna make things awkward for him.”

“You’re a good little egg, Bitty-bits.” Shitty gives a decisive nod, satisfied. “And this is your home now, too. We’ll totally look out for you, brah.”

“Yeah, it’s a Haus rule to have each other’s backs, right, bro?” Holster adds, nudging Ransom. “Plus you make good muffins, so.”

“Mmbffrnmmm,” Ransom mumbles around a mouthful of pastry, but his eyes seem to be smiling kindly, so Eric takes it as a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently when you win one of those big deal international competitions, you get to perform in a victory concert and sometimes even go on tour with the other winners. In this 'verse, that's how Jack and Kent got to know each other. They were both kids who kept meeting up in these contests around the world and winning their categories (they never competed against each other--different instruments and all), and after a while they decided to perform together and formed a duo. Backstory!
> 
> Up next: we finally get a full Haus and fun things happen.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hi, everyone! If y’all notice, I’m in a new location again. It’s the music room in the Haus! The acoustics are better here than in my bedroom, so I thought we’d give it a try. Classes are in full swing now; I’m getting into the groove of living and breathing music 24/7 and I’ve just been so inspired! So I made y’all this mashup, ‘cause I thought it might be fun to mix Mozart with a bit of Adele. Hope you like it!”

Eric adjusts the camcorder on its tripod, making sure he’s framed correctly as he positions his violin. Then he launches right into the energetic melody, playing his heart out, channeling his good mood. It’s only the second week of classes, and his instructors have been demanding a lot from him, but he’s growing more and more certain that he did the right thing coming here. He has to do a bit of scrambling to catch up, not having had formal lessons in years, and he knows he’ll have to deal with his stage fright soon enough. But right now he feels challenged, motivated, and eager. He’s back in the world that he loves after denying himself for so long, and it feels like coming home.

Also, he’s actually making friends. His friendly overtures via pastry are a huge hit, and the other freshmen in the Haus, Dex, Nursey, and Chowder, have somewhat attached themselves to him like baby ducklings. Very tall baby ducklings. He even manages to act normally around Jack these days, whenever they’re around each other. It’s not often; Jack keeps to his room and the music room most of the time, but Shitty says that’s normal Jack, so it’s not like he’s avoiding Eric, specifically.

All in all, things are a marked improvement from how they were this time last year.

Eric finishes with a flourish, beaming at the camera. He lowers his bow and is just about to check the take when he notices someone by the edge of the window, peering in through the open blinds.

“Jack!” he exclaims, moving to open the door and leaning out into the hallway. “Hey. Did you want to use the room? Sorry, I was just—“

“No, no, it’s fine, Bitty, I just got home from class and I heard you playing. Um. I was just…curious, I guess. What was that? It sounded like Mozart, but different.”

“Oh.” Eric flushes. “It’s a mash up of the violin part in _Symphony 40_ with _Rolling in the Deep_.” At Jack’s blank face, he adds, “You know, by Adele?”

There’s not even a flicker of recognition, but Jack rallies. “Right. Well, anyway. It was, um.” He fidgets with the strap of his backpack. “It was really good. I mean. You’re really good.”

“You think so?” Eric breathes. “I—thanks, Jack. That really. That means a lot.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, good. I’m just gonna,” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder and turns to go.

He’s about five long strides away when Eric takes a deep breath, thinks _screw it_ , and calls out, “Jack, wait!”

He stops, looks back. “Yeah?”

“What’s your favorite kind of pie?” Eric dares to ask.

“Um, apple with maple sugar,” Jack replies, scrunching up his forehead. “Why?”

Eric smiles. “I was just wondering, you see, because I already know the others’ favorites and baked them all at least once. It’s not fair if you don’t get a turn.”

This amuses Jack for some reason. “Fair, eh? You don’t have to—“

“Oh, nobody has to force me to bake a pie, Jack, trust me.” Eric laughs.

“Yeah, Shitty may have mentioned that. Many times. Happily,” Jack informs him. “Ransom and Holster, too.”

“Yeah?” Eric grins. “Well. You’ll get your turn, Mr. Zimmermann, then you’ll understand what all the fuss is about.”

“Looking forward to it, Bitty,” Jack says, flashing a quick smile before turning to walk away. Eric’s heart suddenly skips a beat.

Lord, so apparently he’s still a little starstruck. Thank heavens he managed not to act like a fool this time. Small mercies, Eric thinks.

* * *

 

 

Eric’s bouncing along to Jessie J as he whips up some raspberry buttercream frosting while waiting for the lemon cupcakes to be done. Poor Chowder’s still struggling with homesickness (there were suspicious sniffling sounds last night from the room beside Eric’s). Plus Dex and Nursey are still bickering a lot, which is unfortunate as they share the second double bedroom in the attic, not to mention being in the same freshman brass quintet, with Nursey on the trumpet and Dex on the French horn. Technically those three are as new to Samwell as Eric is, but he’s older than them and he’s been through the whole freshman thing once before, so he can’t help but fret about their adjustment to college life. He thinks some tasty treats might perk everyone’s spirits up.

It certainly worked for Jack, Eric thinks, feeling warm at the memory. His droopy blue eyes had crinkled up in pleasure when he tasted Eric’s maple sugar-crusted apple pie, and he was smiling when he conceded that he now gets what all the fuss is about.

 _That’s two times now_ , Eric muses, and his brain promptly screeches to a halt over the realization that he’s been counting Jack Zimmermann’s smiles. It’s just the music, he rationalizes, trying not to panic. That sonata from the night they met. He knows Jack is majoring in both piano and composition, and though he doesn’t quite have the nerve to ask, Eric’s almost sure that what he heard was an original work. Music had always spoken to him deeply, so it’s only natural that he would feel a sort of emotional investment in a piece that really affected him. Natural, too, that it would kinda transfer over to the one who wrote it. Makes sense, really. He’ll get over it eventually, make some new mental associations when he gets to know the guy better. And then Jack will be just Jack. Yeah, it makes sense. But just to be safe, he’d better quit it with this counting smiles nonsense.

“’Sup, Bits?” Eric nearly drops the piping bag he’s filling, so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t even hear Lardo come in. Shitty introduced the visual arts major as an honorary hausmate, requisite weird nickname and all, and Eric had never been so happy to make a friend at Samwell who didn’t tower over him. He made her a chocolate pecan pie for that alone, and the fact that she’s amazing made her doubly deserving of it.

“Lardo, hey!” Eric greets, bringing himself back to the here and now. “Perfect timing. I could use an artist’s touch for cupcake decorating, wanna help?”

“Sounds fun,” she agrees gamely, pushing up her sleeves while Eric takes out the tray from the oven. “I know you don’t need an occasion to bake, bro, but is there any special reason we’re doing cupcakes today?”

Eric shrugs. “Oh, just, you know. Chowder’s homesickness, Dex and Nursey’s roommate problems, thought it might cheer people up.”

Lardo’s eyes widen and this look comes over her face. “Dude,” she says, putting her hands on Eric’s shoulders. “ _Dude_. I have one word for you: _kegster_. It’s gonna be ‘swawesome! Oh, I gotta talk to Shitty.”

Then she runs off, cupcakes forgotten.

* * *

 

 

 **@omgcheckplease:** My first college party. Sorry, *kegster*. Prayer circle that I don’t wake up tomorrow with stupid drunk selfies all over Twitter. #hauslyf

9:21 PM – 6 Sept 2014

 

 

Eric makes his way slowly up the stairs, deliberately placing one foot in front of the other to counteract the buzz caused by Ransom and Holster’s enthusiastic shotgunning tutorial. He probably shouldn’t be leaving Chowder to his own devices down there, but he sighs in relief when the air gets fresher and cooler the farther away he gets from the crowd. He hopes Dex and Nursey are looking out for that sweet guileless honey child of his because Eric needs to change his shirt; he hadn’t known that drinking beer could get so darn _messy_. Preoccupied with inspecting the stain and wondering how to wash it out, Eric fails to notice Jack coming out of the communal bathroom and comes to an abrupt halt by colliding into a chest that really has _no business_ being that perfectly sculpted when it belongs to a musician, _lord_.

“Whoa, Bitty, you okay?” Jack asks, steadying him by the shoulders.

“Goodness gracious, sorry, sorry, Jack,” Eric gasps, then clears his throat to stop his voice from being all breathless like that. It must’ve been more suffocating downstairs than he realized. “I’m just fine, thanks for askin’. Been taking shotgunning lessons, y’know.”

“Bitty’s first kegster, eh?” Jack smirks. It kinda does something to Eric, that stupid smirk.

“Yeah,” Eric giggles. He actually giggles. Dammit. “Wait, why’re you up here all alone?”

“I’m not much for parties,” Jack shrugs and starts walking with him down the hall. “But it’s good that you’re having fun.” He opens his door, looks back at Eric with a glint in his eye. “Just not too much fun, eh?” he teases. “Don’t want you getting so drunk that you end up sleeping on the floor. _Again_.” He grins at Eric, all slyness and mischief, then shuts the door on his sputtering reaction.

 _That’s three_ , Eric thinks, helplessly, then despairs of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:
> 
> 1\. I absolutely love how Jack calls Bitty "Bittle" in the comic; it's one of my favorite character beats. But here, Bitty explicitly told him that having a nickname meant something to him the very first time they met. As much as I love hockey robot Jack, our Jack here is a musician and composer, which means he has like ten times more the emotional intelligence and sensitivity of canon!Jack. So he calls Bitty by the nickname that signifies his acceptance of his place in the Haus. They may have had an awkward start but Jack really has no reason to be an ass, since Bitty is in no way jeopardizing his shot at redemption like in the comic. So here we have a softer Jack and a Bitty who's slightly more broken. We'll see how this goes.
> 
> 2\. There really is a mash-up of Mozart and Rolling in the Deep here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SlG_cxziIdY. It's performed by a quartet, so I have no idea how it would sound with a solo violinist. But we agreed to just go with it, yeah? *smiles hopefully at you*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I might try something that's a pretty significant deviation from one of my favorite scenes in the comic. Fingers crossed that it works.

Autumn looks wonderful on Samwell, like a bright, warm coat that complements its red brick buildings and crimson clad students. Eric cozies up in scarves and sweaters and warms his hands around pumpkin spice lattes. It’s lovely.

But for all that he enjoys the turning of the season, it also serves to remind him that there’s an important part of his “be braver” resolution that he hasn’t quite accomplished yet. He’s made more friends than he expected here, more than his lonely little past self could’ve ever hoped for, but he still hasn’t managed to share one of the biggest parts of who he is. He hasn’t been able to come out to even one of his boisterous hausmates, or even Lardo, despite the fact that they all spend so much time together that everyone else in the Arts Institute practically considers them a unit. He’ll find the perfect moment, he consoles himself. Shitty’s actually his RA as well as his friend, after all, so maybe he’ll ask him for a one-on-one talk soon.

He doesn’t get the chance.

It’s a relatively quiet afternoon at the house, despite the sounds of Dex’s French horn coming from the closed music room and the fainter strains of Ransom and Holster’s jam session carried by a slight breeze from the attic through the kitchen’s open window. Eric and Chowder are sitting across each other at the table, music history notes spread between them, a plate dotted with study time snickerdoodle crumbs holding down some of the pages. Okay, there isn’t much studying going on at present, to be honest. Eric keeps getting distracted by Twitter, not to mention a lovestruck Chowder bemoaning his crush on a volleyball player who lives in one of the varsity houses down the street.

“Girls are _hard_ , Bitty,” his smitten starry-eyed lamb groans. “How do you even talk to girls?! No, really. How do _you_ talk to girls? How do you get them to date you?”

Eric freezes. It’s an innocent question, but—“I, uh. I…really wouldn’t know, Chowder. I mean. I’ve never. Um.”

“Wait, never?” Chowder straightens up, incredulous. “But you’re ‘swawesome! Girls must like you a lot!”

“Well…” Eric’s heart is pounding, his hands clenching hard on the hem of his sweater under the table. Just say it, he tells himself. You prepared for this. There were _index cards_ , for heaven’s sake. But in the moment, his carefully practiced speech for the occasion is coming up blank.

He takes a deep breath, screws up his courage, and decides to just wing it. “I don’t…really like girls. For dating, I mean.” His voice is shaking, but he’s not done. “I’m gay,” he clarifies, for good measure.

Chowder blinks at him, and it’s only for a second but Eric’s bracing himself so hard he feels like he might break.

“Okay,” Chowder finally says. “But you’re still ‘swawesome, Bitty. Anyone can see that!” His eyes are wide and so, so sincere.

“Oh,” Eric chokes, and it’s ridiculous, the danger has passed, but he feels even more like crying now _. It felt so good just to say it._ “Thank you, Chowder,” he manages, throat tight with tears.

His precious tenderhearted son anxiously stands up, looking torn between running around the table to offer comfort or running to get more qualified help. Shitty and Lardo solve his dilemma by walking in right that second.

“Shitty!” Chowder flails. “Bitty’s crying! I didn’t—” He’s cut off by Shitty engulfing him in a giant hug.

“Shhh, you fucking beaut of a cellist,” Shitty soothes the worried boy. “Those are the good kind of tears,” he assures him, winking at Eric, who’s being similarly cuddled by Lardo in his chair.

“You heard?” Eric asks, tucking his blotchy face into Lardo’s neck.

“We didn’t mean to,” she tells him. “But we’re so proud of you, Bits. Also we got your back,” she promises, squishing him tighter. “Always.”

“Damn fucking right we do,” Shitty says, dragging Chowder around the table to make a bigger cuddle pile with them. Eric’s right at the bottom, still sitting down, but Chowder’s hand somehow makes it to his arm and squeezes, and it’s maybe the best he’s felt in a while. He’s so happy to be here.

Then Lardo gets distracted. “Not that this love fest isn’t ‘swawesome and all,” she says, her voice a bit muffled from under the tangle of limbs. “But did you guys eat all the snickerdoodles?”

“More in the cookie jar,” Eric laughs through his tears, his heart impossibly light. “Who do you take me for?”

 

 

 **@omgcheckplease:** It may take a while, but you’ll eventually find your people. Just a reassurance for anyone feeling alone out there. #itgetsbetter

5:19 PM – 21 Sept 2014

* * *

 

 

A week later, Eric’s just leaving Kotter after having delivered brownies to an agitated Lardo camped out in front of an apparently very stubborn canvas. (“Why am I doing this, Bits. I coulda been a grifter, or oh! Maybe a jewel thief. I’m tiny, I can crawl through vents. Probably.”) He gets himself a PSL at the coffee shop and decides to enjoy the gorgeous late September day by taking the long way home.

Strolling around Lake Quad, Eric looks towards the particular stand of trees that Nursey loves so much, idly wondering if he might be there “chilling” on the pile of leaves. He does see someone under the trees, but it doesn’t look like Nu— _wait_. Is that _Jack_?

It is, indeed, Jack. Jack Zimmermann who’s crouching on the ground, wearing nothing warmer than a t-shirt, jeans, and those ridiculous yellow shoes despite the crisp fall air, very intently pointing a DSLR camera at a random bunch of fallen leaves.  Eric walks closer to investigate.

“Oh hey, Bitty,” Jack says casually when he notices him, as if this were an everyday occurrence. “Could you move a little bit, please? I need the light.”

Eric moves. Hanging out with Jack is no longer a novelty these days. He eventually acclimatized to the new hausmates, even let himself be pestered by Shitty into what was declared as an “Official Haus Outing – Superberry Edition, I’m the Goddamn RA, Jacky Boy, I’m Making This Shit Mandatory.” After Eric’s seen him with froyo dripping from his entire left eyebrow as a casualty of Ransom and Holster’s roughhousing, he’s just not the same level of intimidating as before.

Eric's still fascinated by him, though. That hasn’t gone away.

“I didn’t know you were into photography,” he ventures.

Jack hums, still clicking away. “Started taking classes last year,” he explains absently. “It’s a lot like music.”

“Really?” Eric is intrigued. “How so?”

Jack finally straightens up, making himself comfy on the carpet of leaves, and pats the ground beside him in invitation. Eric sits down, crossing his legs.

“Here, I’ll show you,” Jack says, pressing buttons until his camera screen shows a vibrant shot of autumn leaves lying on the ground. He offers it to Eric while still wearing the strap around his neck, so he leans closer.

“Oh. That’s lovely, Jack,” he says honestly. They no longer seem like random leaves. From that close, all the colors and shapes look like an abstract splash of art, something Lardo might paint in her studio.

“It’s all about patterns and contrasts,” Jack points out, his voice earnest and quiet in their shared space. Eric studies the edges of one red leaf in the photo as it gently curls into a golden one, and there’s something graceful, even _harmonious_ , about it.

“I see what you mean,” he agrees thoughtfully.

Jack then changes the display to an image of bare branches, reaching up into an empty sky, a single orange leaf still clinging to a twig and glowing in the light. “Sometimes it’s about negative space,” he continues. “How the absence of something can emphasize something else. Kinda like music, eh?” he says, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “You need the silences.”

Eric tries not to be charmed. He tries really hard.

Then Jack sniffs a couple of times, scrunching up his nose adorably, and Eric loses the battle.

“What’s that?” he asks, distracted from the photography lesson. “That smell? Like pie.”

“Oh!” Eric exclaims, remembering the cup he set down on the ground beside him. “It’s my pumpkin spice latte,” he says. “You wanna try it?”

Jack squints at the offered cup dubiously, but he accepts it gamely enough. He sips.

“Well?” Eric asks, watching closely enough to catch a quick flash of surprised pleasure cross Jack’s face.

“Hmm,” is all he says.

Eric tries to tamp down a smile. “Tell you what,” he proposes, standing up. “We’ll go get you one at the coffee shop, then you can decide whether you like it or not after you finish it.” He extends a hand to Jack and waits for him to consider the offer.

“Okay,” Jack decides after a moment, and there’s a bashful smile on his lips when he accepts Eric’s hand to lever himself up from the ground.

Later, walking back to the Haus with their coffee, that same bashful smile shows up when Jack admits that he likes how the pumpkin spice latte makes him feel warm inside.

Eric’s not counting smiles anymore, he’s _not_ , but that just might be his favorite one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Precious Chowder! I hope you don't mind that I made him Bitty's first confidant in coming out. I loved the Shitty scene so much that I knew I couldn't possibly do it any better, and this idea won't leave me alone. My sweet child. So awkward, yet so kind, and he thinks the sun shines out of Bitty's ass. <3
> 
> Also, photographer!Jack. My crush, is it obvious?
> 
> Prayer circle for the next chapter, y'all. That one was so emotionally exhausting to write, and it's gonna be a bitch to edit since I have no sounding board, so here's hoping I can update next week.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey fandom, y'all still alive? Because I'm pretty sure #bittybomb22016 killed me dead and I'm posting from beyond the grave. I actually had second thoughts about adding to the already volatile mix of emotions Ngozi just dropped on us, but I did promise an update this week, so here we are.
> 
> WARNINGS: descriptions of a panic attack, recollections of bullying, homophobia, and assault, and a mention of a drug overdose.
> 
> Just remember how happy they are in canon; we'll all be just fine.

Two days later, Prof. Atley announces that Eric’s string quartet is slated to perform in the freshman/sophomore Halloween concert, and Eric’s heart sinks with dread. He goes through his day in a state of buzzing nerves, bakes one dozen each of four kinds of cookies and a tray of butterscotch, then goes up to his room to distract himself by editing some vlogging footage. When watching himself play only makes him want to jump out of his skin, he grabs his violin, bow, and sheet music and goes down to the music room. Maybe if he practices as much as he can and tries to be as humanly prepared as possible….

Eric’s not sure how it happens, but one minute he’s practicing Haydn, and the next he’s kneeling by the piano bench, his music stand still clattering on the floor, his hands frantically clutching at his chest as he gasps for air. The last thing he remembers is mustering enough clarity to set his violin safely down on the piano, but things are quickly blurring and he can’t, _he can’t breathe_. He tries to tell himself this happened before, and he didn’t die, it didn’t kill him, he’s gonna be okay, but he’s shaking and shaking and shaking and _oh god his chest is so tight_ , everything is coming apart….

“—itty? Eric. Eric, hey, it’s me. It’s Jack. I’m here. Can I touch you, would that be okay?”

There’s a calm, unwavering voice making itself heard through the panicking klaxons inside Eric’s head, and the world is all blurry and shaky but he scrabbles and flails trying to make contact, desperate for something solid and real.

Suddenly there’s a warm presence by his side, a strong arm curving around his shoulders, and Eric’s blessedly not alone anymore. One big hand catches his, holds it firmly, and Eric hears that steady voice again.

“I’m just gonna bring your hand to my chest, okay? So you can feel how I breathe. There. Now breathe with me, come on. You can do it. I’m just gonna count for us, eh? Just inhale and exhale when I do.”

Eric needs that voice to keep talking, so he tries his best, follows the regular rise and fall under his palm. He clings to the tone of approval that comes when he does what the voice says, breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth, two counts every time. The voice is soothing, constant, reassuring, like the oxygen flowing into Eric’s grateful lungs and loosening the tightness in his chest. Slowly, he starts to return to himself, and Jack—it’s Jack—starts rubbing his back in slow, calming motions.

“There you are,” he says. “Just keep breathing. Take your time.” Then he releases Eric’s hand to push back his sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, gently, and Eric leans instinctively into the kindness of the touch.

Long, hazy moments later, Eric’s breathing is returning to normal, his heart rate slowing down, when he registers that Jack is humming, _actually humming_ , a really familiar tune beside him. He clears his throat.

“Jack. Are you…are you humming _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_ right now? Really?” The incongruity of it startles a sudden small giggle out of him, and if there’s still a tinge of hysteria to it, there’s no need to mention that.

“It’s Mozart!” Jack says defensively, but there’s an obvious note of relief in his voice.

“It’s _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_ , Jack,” Eric repeats, his voice still a little too hoarse to manage deadpan.

“Well,” Jack says. “My _maman_ used to sing lullabies to soothe me, and that was the only English one I know. Whatever helps, eh?”

Eric doesn’t know what to say to that, but Jack just smiles softly at him and says, “I’ll get you some water, okay? Will you be okay here for a little while?”

Eric nods wordlessly, and Jack leaves with a promise to return quickly. The moment he’s gone, the door to the music room left ajar, Eric belatedly realizes what just happened. He just had a panic attack all over _Jack Zimmermann_ , of all people, and he’s so horrified and ashamed that his heart starts pounding again. He’s such a _disaster_. Then Jack is there, thrusting a bottle of water at him, and frantic apologies just start spilling out of Eric.

“ _Lord_ , Jack, I am so, so sorry. I can’t even tell you how mortified I am, I just—“

“Stop,” Jack interrupts. “Stop it, Bitty. You don’t have to be sorry. Especially not to me,” he says, and Eric doesn’t quite know how to parse that, but it derails his panic anyway.

“Just drink the water,” Jack murmurs, and after Eric does, he produces a small, slightly damp towel and offers it. “Here, you can wipe your face and neck. You’ll feel better.”

Eric takes the cloth, and he’s right—the coolness of it on his overheated skin refreshes him, especially after the drink. He heaves a small sigh of relief at the feeling.

“Do you want to sit on the bench?” Jack asks, and that’s when Eric realizes they’re still on the floor. Jack helps him up, sitting beside him, and Eric casts about for something to say. Another attempt at an apology, maybe, or a thank you, but words have deserted him and he hasn’t a clue how to start. Good lord. What’s the protocol for when your hausmate and maybe-almost-friend who also happens to be a musical genius you've admired for years saves you from yourself?

“I know how it feels,” Jack says, after a few beats of silence. His voice is low, like he’s sharing a secret, and that's exactly what this is. “That’s why you don’t have to be sorry. Or embarrassed. Where do you think I learned how to deal with it, eh?” He’s looking at Eric, one eyebrow raised, waiting for him to react.

“I—” Eric starts, and fumbles about for how to continue. “I don’t really know what to say,” he finally admits.

“You can ask me, if you want,” Jack offers. “Or you can tell me about what set you off tonight, if you wanted to talk about it.” His tone is mild, his body language open, but Eric’s not quite ready for the second option so he dares to go for the first.

“Will you…will you tell me what happened? To you, I mean,” he ventures, and despite what Jack said, Eric still watches closely for any sign that he might have to backtrack, retreat behind the usual boundaries again.

But he only nods, twisting and untwisting the cap of the water bottle he’s still holding in his hands. “You know that world tour, the one with Kent Parson?”

Eric just nods. Of course he knows.

“I was terrified out of my wits the whole time.” Jack shakes his head, gives a self-deprecating little laugh. “I mean. I've always had the anxiety, for as long as I can remember, but that time, it was just…really bad. I thought it was normal. Everyone gets nervous, eh? Everyone gets scared. I thought if it seemed worse for me that’s just because there was more at stake. More to prove. So I fought through it, took my meds that let me sleep at night—didn’t want to let my parents and Kent and everyone else down. And I thought…I guess I was hoping that if I got through the tour without falling apart, then it would get better. Then the pressure would ease up, because I would’ve proven myself, at least a little bit.

“But then the tour ended, and it didn’t ease up, but only got worse and worse. People kept talking about even greater expectations for Robert Zimmermann’s son. And I just…couldn’t, anymore.

“I took too many pills one night.” At this, Jack pauses, darts a quick, cautious glance at Eric. “I…um. I almost died. My heart stopped. Twice.”

Eric is stunned. He wants to gasp, wants to ask questions, wants to put his hand back on Jack’s chest to feel the strong, steady beat of his heart. But he can’t. He’s not sure what maybe-almost-friends are allowed, but probably not those things, when he’s not actively in crisis. So he ruthlessly reels in his impulses and contents himself with very tentatively reaching out his hand to touch Jack’s where it now rests on the bench between them, softly and only for a second, before quickly taking it back and tucking it firmly between his knees. There's so, so much that Eric wants to say with that too-brief little moment of contact, but even in his own mind he can't articulate most of it, except for this: _I'm so glad you're here. I'm so glad you survived._ There’s something inside him recoiling violently against the idea that Jack might not have, and he scolds himself to get it together, because he _did_.

Jack slides a look at him, and there’s a soft little smile on his lips. “I’m okay now, Bitty,” he says, nudging his shoulder gently. “Well, not _all the way_ okay, but…you know. Better. I’m still working on it. So…so if you wanted to talk to someone. Um. I’m here.”

Eric’s still reeling, to be honest, but the tentative note in Jack’s voice, as if he’s worried about spooking Eric away with his offer of a listening ear, makes him refocus. The thing is, he’s been _aching_ to talk about this for a while now, to just lay out all his fears and insecurities and maybe have someone tell him there’s a way out, that there’s hope. He just hadn’t figured that that someone could be _Jack Zimmermann_ , of all people.

 _But why not_ , something inside him wonders. He recalls the night they met, and as much as it can still make him flush, the remembered awkwardness pales in comparison to the memory of the sonata Jack had been playing by himself. Something hurt and scared inside Eric had responded to that music, hopeful that someone understood, that someone else knew the complicated tangle of love and fear and shame and longing that music meant to him. After tonight’s revelations, he’s now certain that his gut instinct had been right. For all that Jack Zimmermann is leagues ahead of Eric in practically every respect, he’s still going to understand. He’s been there. Eric’s story is safe with him.

 _Be brave_ , he reminds himself.

“I haven’t…I haven’t played onstage since I was twelve, Jack.” He sighs out the confession, weary with the weight of it. “Not for a real audience. I used to love it so much. It was the best feeling in the world, I used to tell my mama, being able to share music with others. Then I just…couldn’t. Anymore.”

“What happened, Bitty?” Jack’s voice is soft, devoid of judgment.

“…There were these boys in my grade,” he answers. “I was always so scared of them. Grew up in a very small southern town, and, well…it’s one thing to play the violin, classical music especially, but it’s another thing to _go around doin’ sissy stuff and actin’ like a pansy_ , and somehow I managed to do both and that was just…too different for them to ignore, I guess. They _hated_ me, and they were brutal about it. They beat me up all the time. Even broke my violin once.”

“Did your parents know?”

Eric shakes his head. “No. I lied about it whenever the bruises couldn’t be hidden. Told them I was clumsy, or that there were accidents. My father…he was a football coach, Jack. I was his only son. And he never said it—he never said much of anything, really—but I knew that he was disappointed that I wasn’t more into sports or…or more like him, I guess. Stronger. Tougher. And if I ever told my mama, then Coach would know, and I couldn’t stand that. So I just never told. I hid how those boys had been making my life a living hell.

“They didn’t really find out what was going on until I was twelve. I performed an intermission number in a school assembly, and the boys caught me alone afterwards. This wasn’t anything new. Whenever they saw me play, in talent shows or Christmas programs or whatever, they seemed to hate me more. Those were always the worst beatings. But this time was after I’d managed to avoid them for a month, and they were mad as hell. Meaner. The biggest one, Brandon, he grabbed me by the arm and threw me inside a broom closet, and they locked me in and left me there, and…and—” Eric’s voice suddenly breaks and he realizes that he’s sobbing, reliving the terror and helplessness and pain, all of it laced with a bewildered, plaintive lack of understanding about why they thought he deserved their cruelty, just _why_ , he’d never done anything, he never—

He’s suddenly pulled into Jack’s arms, and he may be imagining it but he thinks he hears Jack’s voice crack when he says, “You don’t have to say any more, if you don’t want to; it’s okay, just—” Then Jack is pressing Eric’s face to his chest, solid and warm, and the total surprise of it jolts him out of the past. He freezes for only half a second, then he melts into the hug, the simple physical comfort of it, the offer of strength _for_ him and not against him, so different from what he'd known. He realizes that he wants to get it all out. He wants to tell his story, every detail of it. Acknowledge the hurt. He says as much to the man still holding him tightly, the admission muffled against his tear-stained shirt.

“Okay,” Jack replies, the word murmured into Eric’s hair. “You can tell me anything.” He releases Eric after one last reassuring squeeze, regarding him with a solemn gaze.

Eric misses the hug immediately, but Jack's now sitting closer than before, and it makes him feel safe enough to revisit the horrible memory.

"They broke my arm, Jack,” he says, his voice still rough with remembered pain.

Jack’s eyes widen and his face pales, but he doesn’t say anything, so Eric keeps on. “I don’t know if they meant to go that far, but Brandon was twice my size and he was gripping my arm tightly with both his hands when he threw me inside the closet. I actually heard it break. They left me there the whole night, in agonizing pain, completely alone in the dark.

“But you know what was worse? It was the terror that I would never play again, that my arm couldn’t be fixed because I was trapped there when I needed to get to a doctor, and I was so, so hysterical from the fear that I lost my voice calling for help despite knowing no one would hear me. At some point, I must’ve passed out, because I woke up in a hospital bed, and it was morning. It was the janitor who found me.”

Eric notices that Jack’s eyes are trained on his right forearm, but it’s probably because Eric himself is running his left hand up and down the length of it, trying to soothe a phantom pain. He stops, self-conscious, but when Jack meets his gaze the only thing he sees is a deep understanding of his horror at the thought that he might lose music forever.

“It was just a simple fracture,” he continues. “It healed cleanly, thank goodness. I was so overjoyed the first time I was able to play an entire movement after they took off the cast that I burst into tears in Katya’s studio. I was so relieved. Brandon hadn’t managed to take music away from me, after all.

“Then we had a recital, all of Katya’s students, and I had a panic attack that came on so fast and so bad that I fainted at center stage. Right in front of everyone. I came to in the dressing room with my mama holding me…and that was just the first incident. Every time I tried to play in front of an audience, even in the church at my cousin’s wedding, I would just fall apart completely.

“Eventually, I just…gave up,” Eric confesses, and the shame of it thickens his voice. He can’t even look at Jack. “We moved to Madison, and I kept my head down, tried to be practical by enrolling in the nearest college that would take me. I told myself that maybe my dreams weren’t meant to be. But...I still couldn’t let go. Not completely. So I started making my silly little videos, posted them online, tried to satisfy myself with that. I pretended it was enough.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“No,” Eric admits miserably. “It wasn’t. I was lying to myself, being a coward, and I knew it. It was no way to live. Now…now I’m here, I’ve got this second chance by some miracle, and I promised myself I’d earn it. I'd be braver. But the truth is, I don’t know if I can. I have to get up on the Hagen stage for the Halloween concert, with my quartet depending on me, with _me_ depending on me, and I…I just don’t know if I can, Jack. It’s been more than six years. I’m terrified. What if I can’t?”

“You ask for help.”

The suggestion, offered so readily, stops Eric in his tracks. “What?” he asks, finally looking up at Jack.

His blue eyes are haunted and serious, but there isn’t a trace of condemnation in them, and his hand makes an abortive move towards Eric but drops back down to his lap. Eric can _see_ him actively trying to gather his thoughts.

“Bitty, I…” Jack takes a deep breath. “I know a lot about being terrified. You know now, eh? You know what happened to me. And I wish…I wish that I had asked for help sooner. Before it was almost too late. I almost lost everything. I was hurting myself and the people who loved me, trying to do it alone, when I didn’t have to. And neither do you.”

“Jack, I just—“

“It _doesn’t_ make you weak,” Jack interrupts firmly. “It doesn’t, Bitty. Something really bad happened to you, okay? You didn’t deserve it, and it’s not _wrong_ to ask for help in getting past it. It doesn’t make you a coward. Sometimes that’s the bravest thing to do.”

Eric is silent for a moment, letting the words and Jack’s conviction hang in the air between them.

“They have counselors here, you know,” Jack says, tentative now, gentle. “They can help you. Give it a try, eh?”

“You really think it will make a difference?” Bitty asks, almost afraid to hope.

“You’ve got nothing to lose by trying,” Jack points out, matter of fact. “And plenty to lose by not doing anything.”

And, well. Eric really can’t deny the truth of that.

 

* * *

 

 

Eric wakes up the next morning feeling off balance, like there’s something fundamentally different about the reality he’s waking up to. He lies still, wondering, and then memories of the previous night suddenly rush back into his awareness. How he had revealed his secrets to Jack. Before that, how _Jack_ had revealed his secrets to _him_. Even before that, how Eric had managed to have a massive panic attack in front of the one person he has the most pathetic and pointless desire to impress, when said person had probably come down that night just hoping to use the music room in peace.

He curls around Señor Bunny and waits for the mortification to set in.

He waits some more.

It doesn’t come.

If Eric’s feeling anything at all, it’s _tired_. He’s exhausted to the bone, despite only just waking up. He’s been running from his fears for so long, living with the knowledge that they’re never more than a few steps behind him, waiting for a chance to take him down. He can’t do it anymore. If he’s learned anything, it’s that the bullies will always catch up, will always find him, and hiding from them will only make it worse. It’s about time to face them head on.

He’s still terrified, is the thing. But he remembers Jack, remembers what he lived through, and what he said about asking for help before it’s too late. He remembers the conviction in Jack’s voice when he said it doesn’t make him weak, not being able to get on by himself. It’s what he’s been trying to do this whole time, Eric realizes, trying to prove something to himself, or to his father, maybe, or maybe even to Brandon and his gang. And he’s so tired. He’s so damn tired of trying to make it alone.

He goes to his laptop, finds the guidance and counseling services page on the Samwell website, and sends an email asking for an appointment before he can chicken out. There. SOS sent.

 

* * *

 

 

More than three weeks later, Eric’s walking home after his sixth counseling session, a productive one, when he spies Jack taking pictures of geese on the river. Eric tries and fails to hold back a smile. Ever since he started his appointments, he’s managed to run into Jack loitering about in random locations along the way home every single time. It took him until after his fourth meeting with Dr. Sparrow to notice the pattern, but now he can’t _un_ notice it. Jack’s always busy taking pictures whenever Eric sees him, face glued to the viewfinder, but when Eric goes up to talk he willingly abandons his subject, puts the lens cap back on the camera, and pseudo-casually mentions how some coffee might be nice in this weather, one of those pumpkin ones, maybe, so would Eric like to go to Annie’s? It’s endearing. Eric is hopelessly, helplessly endeared.

The thing is, he’s aware that this is Jack trying to be there for him without being intrusive. He’s never the one who approaches first; he always waits for Eric to come up to him. Somehow, Eric can also sense that if for some reason he doesn’t feel like talking or having company, then all he has to do is  _not_ go up to Jack, just leave him to his photos after a casual wave or something, and that would be okay, too. It’s one of the most touching things anyone’s ever done for Eric, actually, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. He’s never known anyone like Jack before.

Feeling impossibly fond, Eric ambles up to the earnestly concentrating photographer who’s clicking away at the geese. He just stands there for a moment, enjoying the same sight, then Jack lowers his camera and blinks those impossibly blue eyes at him.

“Hi, Jack,” Eric says. _Fancy meeting you here_. Then he smiles, because he really can’t help it. “Coffee?”

 

 

They’re sitting at the smallest coffee table inside Annie’s, knees almost touching in the limited space, when Jack asks him if he’s free on Saturday.

“There's quartet rehearsal at four,” Eric tells him, wondering what this is about. “But otherwise I’ve got time. What’s up?”

“Come with me to Boston,” Jack says, leaning forward intently. “We’ll be back by three.”

Eric is intrigued. “What’s in Boston?”

“Oh, you know. All kinds of stuff.”

“ _Jack_.”

“Just come with me, Bitty, please? It’s a surprise. Trust me?”

Well. Eric does, is the thing. After their awkward start, the most he’d hoped for was to get over being starstruck with Jack, for them to be cordial with each other while sharing space. He hadn’t expected to actually become Jack’s friend, to be allowed to see behind the brooding exterior of the musical genius until the reality of him, the kind, wonderful, complicated truth, eclipses any starstruck ideal Eric once had. But that’s what this is, undeniably. Ever since Jack started offering his support in that quiet, unobtrusive way of his, they’ve been spending a lot of time together, even without the impetus of Eric's counseling schedule. Some days, Eric cheerfully chatters away while Jack listens and contentedly sips his pumpkin spice latte, and other days Eric slumps over the table, too emotionally drained to be entertaining company, and that’s when Jack offers his camera for Eric to distract himself by looking through his photos. Jack’s seen the worst, weakest side of Eric for himself and decided to be his friend anyway, so yes, Eric trusts him. He trusts him quite a lot.

“Fine, I’ll go with you to Boston,” he concedes, and warmth blooms inside him when Jack’s eyes crinkle up. Honestly, this boy. “This better be good, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“You’ll find out,” he smirks, but he nudges Eric’s foot with his under the table, and the bright, pleased look is still in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did tell you guys we had a more broken Bitty, but I hope the more emotionally astute Jack makes up for it? Just *why* is he so much more perceptive and expressive than our beloved hockey robot captain, anyway? The music thing, yes, and years of therapy, but also some other experiences that will be revealed soon enough. Maybe it's destiny that in every universe, they are exactly what each other needs. Badum-tss.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The panic attack coping techniques described here are drawn from my own personal experience, not prescribed universally (some people don't like to be touched, for example). If you love someone with an anxiety disorder, ask them how you can help should the need arise. If you have one or suspect that you might, I'll just repeat Jack's sentiments: it's okay to ask for help. Take care of yourselves and each other, my loves.
> 
> See you again next week! We're going to Boston.


	6. Chapter 6

They’re in Jack’s car, Eric’s stomach hurting from laughing so much when Jack keeps guessing “Taylor Swift” to every song on Eric’s playlist. For all that this boy can identify Schubert or Rachmaninoff or Brahms from only the first few notes, he’s absolutely hopeless when it comes to music most people his age actually listen to. Eric remembers Shitty calling him a “man out of time,” so he’s doing his best to bring him up to speed, but the results have been more hilarious than successful. And now Jack’s over there at the driver’s seat, his wide shoulders shaking with laughter, his look of mock offense at Eric’s teasing absolutely refusing to stay on his face. _Lord_ , Eric thinks to himself, _what on earth is he going to do with this boy_.

Jack had firmly refused to tell him where they were going during the forty-five-minute trip, but now they’re somewhere in Boston driving away from the picturesque downtown district, and Eric’s curiosity is at its peak. The car turns a few more corners and Eric finds that they’re in a rather shabby-looking neighborhood, with faded, vandalized buildings and glass on the sidewalk from broken streetlights. Jack drives further in until he's pulling into the parking lot of a public junior high school. What could possibly be happening here at a quarter past eight on a Saturday morning?

“Come on, Bitty,” Jack says, twisting to get his bag from the back seat then gracefully getting out of the car. Eric follows suit. His face must be showing just how many questions he’s bursting to ask, because when Jack looks at him, he snorts and shakes his head a little and just beckons him towards the school. “Just wanna show you something,” is all he says.

 

 

“Something” turns out to be a classroom with the chairs pushed off to the sides to make room for half a dozen digital pianos, neatly arranged in the cleared space, with another one standing in front of the room. Inside, setting up a stool behind every piano, is a petite Asian woman who looks to be in her sixties. She turns at their entrance and just lights up when she sees Jack.

“Jack!” she exclaims, hurrying forward to practically disappear into Jack’s bear hug. Jack laughs and squeezes her a little before letting go. She turns to Eric with a bright, friendly look on her face. “I see you brought a friend,” she says, smiling.

“This is Eric Bittle,” Jack tells her, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “Bitty, this is Ms. Amy Trang. She’s the director of Forte Future, a foundation that gives kids free music lessons.”

“Gosh. It’s lovely to meet you, ma’am,” Eric says, impressed. “Your work sounds amazing.”

“Thank you,” she replies warmly. “But I don’t do it alone. We have such talented volunteers. Jack here is one of the kid’s favorite teachers—they’re always so excited to see him.”

“You teach here, Jack?” This is such delightful new information, Eric’s not sure he can deal.

“Only once a month,” he shrugs awkwardly, and Eric’s favorite bashful smile shows up again. “They like to have special group lessons every last Saturday, and that’s really all the time I can spare.”

“Oh hush, you do plenty,” Ms. Trang protests, slapping Jack lightly on the arm. It looks like she’s about to elaborate, but Jack gives her a _look_ , and she stops. She shakes her head slightly instead, fond and somewhat exasperated. Fascinating.

“Um, you said we could do Bach today?” Jack says, an awkward subject change if he ever saw one. “[Prelude in C major](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlAic9aPoqs)?” He rummages in his backpack and takes out a folder of sheet music, then hands it over.

“This is great, Jack.” Ms. Trang smiles and starts to distribute the sheets around the room. “If you think they’re ready.”

Whatever response Jack’s about to give is cut off at the sound of multiple running feet down the hallway, followed quickly by a group of kids around eight to ten years old bursting into the room and crowding excitedly around Jack. There are hellos and reports of new haircuts and new baby sisters as well as demands for Jack to reveal what he’s going to teach all clamoring for his attention. For all of Jack’s awkwardness in crowds, he seems completely at home in this one, kneeling down to their level while expertly keeping track of what each little member of his fan club is telling him and responding easily. Eric catches several curious looks thrown his way, and from among the competing voices he could just make out Jack saying “my friend” and “like calling him Bitty” and Eric is pretty  impressed with himself for not melting into a helpless puddle of goo on the floor.

Lord, and the lesson hasn’t even started yet.

“I told you he’s popular.” Ms. Trang looks rather entertained as she watches the spectacle, standing beside Eric. After another minute, she goes to help Jack wrangle the children into order, then leads Eric to sit with her at the back where they can observe everything.

 

 

Jack begins the lesson by asking the kids what they learned since the last time they met, praising the ones who eagerly demonstrate on their pianos and gently coaxing out participation from the more reticent ones. They play a guessing game of music the kids are supposed to know, Jack giving out high fives to those who can identify what piece he’s playing the quickest. Eric is amused at the similarity to the game that Jack completely butchered with Taylor Swift guesses in the car, and he raises an eyebrow at him when he catches his eye. Jack flushes and grins back at him.

Then the students gather around the piano at the front as Jack plays Bach for them. Seeing their enraptured faces, Eric remembers the absolute thrill of discovering new music and itching to try it out for himself, to see if he can make the magic happen on his own. He’d never lost that feeling, though it had become tainted by grief over surrendered dreams for a long, long time. Now he’s working towards recapturing it, making it a pure and joyful thing again. He wonders if reminding him of that feeling is why Jack brought him here. If so, Eric is immeasurably touched, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from tearing up right there and then.

“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?”

Eric startles. He’d forgotten for a moment that he wasn’t alone.

“Yes,” Eric admits easily. “He really is. Has he been doing this long?”

“He started volunteering with us three years ago,” Ms. Trang says. Since Jack’s freshman year, then. “He never misses a weekend if he can help it.”

“Do you only do this on weekends?”

“No—we’re renting out some space in a building two blocks from here, where the kids can go after class hours to receive individual instruction. But we don’t really have rooms for group lessons like this, so the school lets us borrow their facilities. It works out well for us, because we can even use their cafeteria. We like to give the kids lunch before we send them home.”

“This really is incredible, Ms. Trang.”

She looks at him with a twinkle in her eyes. “Yes, it really is amazing to watch someone fall in love. Like these children falling in love with music.”

Before Eric can respond, she gets up to distribute headphones for the digital pianos around the room. The lesson’s now at the point where the kids can attempt the piece themselves, and Jack moves from student to student giving patient instruction. The children still waiting their turn all practice with their headsets on, while whoever’s receiving individual attention plays out loud, with Jack guiding. He’s encouraging while still being conscientious in his corrections, and his praise is genuine and generous when they get something right. Eric can see why they love him so much.

With only one piano playing in the room, it’s quiet enough that Eric notices the distinct thumping rhythm of an electric bass guitar from somewhere nearby, along with some mournful cello strains coming from a different direction. He turns to Ms. Trang, curious.

“Ah, yes, we teach different types of music and instruments here,” she explains, “to accommodate as many children as possible. We tend to design our lessons around the availability of qualified and committed instructors. Instruments are expensive, obviously, but they’re still somewhat easier to acquire than truly passionate volunteers. That’s really where the success of the program depends.”

She has a thoughtful smile on her face while she’s saying this, and Eric follows her gaze to Jack, who’s bent over a frizzy-haired kid, guiding her fingers to the proper keys. There’s a look of frustration on the little girl’s face, but Jack says something quietly to her, and she bursts into a giggle. Eric’s breath catches a little bit at the sight, but he decides to give himself a pass. It’s pretty adorable, he tells himself. Anyone would think so.

 

 

It’s nearly eleven when the class ends and Eric helps Jack and Ms. Trang usher the kids into the cafeteria for lunch. He enters the wide double doors just slightly ahead of Jack, and the first thing he sees is a tall, striking young man on a low platform at one end of the large room, grinning his way through what sounds like a Ponty jazz fusion number on his electric violin.

“The instructors like to perform for the students during lunch,” Ms. Trang tells Eric, as they corral the six kids in Jack’s class into the line for chicken tenders, baked potato wedges, and fruit salad. “The kids love it, and sometimes the braver ones even take turns. It’s like a fun, impromptu, free-for-all little concert.”

The jazz violinist finishes with a big flourish, and the room full of about fifty children of all ages erupts into cheers, whistles, and shouts of “You go, Alec!” He does a bunch of dorky finger guns in their direction, laughing, then demands that they tell him who they want to perform next.

By this point a table full of girls around 14 years old have noticed them standing at the back of the room. They poke at each other, looking at Jack, until one of them gets brave enough to call out, “Jack should play next!” Heads turn towards them and multiple eager voices take up the refrain.

There’s a rather old upright piano behind the violinist, and he points his bow at it and calls for Jack to come onstage. Eric smirks at him. “By popular demand, Mr. Zimmermann,” he quips, nudging him with his shoulder playfully. Jack nudges back, huffs a fake-grumpy “fine,” then starts making his way up to the stage. He’s waylaid by a number of fist bump demands from the kids, and one boy about thirteen or fourteen with spiky hair even pulls him down to whisper something in his ear. Jack nods, gives him a conspiratorial smile, and gets an excited thumbs up in return.

Meanwhile, Eric and Ms. Trang have made their way to a table occupied by two other adults, who both identify themselves as volunteers. There’s a rugged-looking guy with stubble and shoulder-length hair who looks (and sounds) like he belongs on one of Coach’s country album covers, but he introduces himself as Kenneth, a professional chef who teaches contemporary guitar in his free time. Then there’s Alice, a model-gorgeous blonde with a camera around her neck, who’s apparently their full time book keeper and unofficial photographer for the foundation’s website that Alec the violin teacher maintains. The latter joins them just as Jack is finally sitting down at the piano, and the conversation halts as they all turn to watch.

Jack starts off soft and slow, the music unfamiliar to Eric. Then out of nowhere he suddenly throws himself into a ridiculously upbeat and cheerful melody that surprises the heck out of him. Also, apparently, Alec. He’s sitting up straight, amazement dawning on his face, and he turns an incredulous look at the rest of them.

"Is he kidding me with this?! _Is he?_ [Masshiro World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slB_qlxA6tQ%20)? Jack Zimmermann does not possibly— _NO_. He _is_ kidding me, isn't he?"

It’s a puzzling reaction, but Alice is shushing the guy before Eric can respond, and anyway he’s still transfixed by Jack’s performance. His fingers are dancing rapidly across the keys, a masterful display of skill, but more than that, the music is so breathless and bright and _fun_ , happy in a way that Eric has never heard from Jack before. Even Jack’s body language is markedly different from his serious and focused demeanor in old youtube videos and the glimpses that Eric catches through the blinds of the music room. This Jack is _playful_ , he’s having a blast, and the energy is impossible to ignore as it brightens the room and makes Eric want to dance. There are kids bouncing in their seats, a couple of volunteers tapping their feet, and Jack himself is smiling impishly as he plays. He hits the last note and there’s a sudden wave of laughter and applause, an outburst of sheer joy, and Jack is outright grinning when he stands up and takes a bow.

The students are shouting out requests for more, but Jack waves them off. “Later, later,” he promises, smiling. “How about Kenneth, eh? I think we should hear from Kenneth now.”

“How am I supposed to follow _that_ , Zimmermann?” Kenneth protests laughingly. “I think I need a secret weapon. Where’s Miss Molly?”

A little brown-haired girl perks up on the other side of the room. “I’m here! I’m here! Are we gonna sing?”

“Let’s show ‘em how it’s done!”

Kenneth picks up his guitar and goes to meet the little girl on the stage, and Alice follows, adjusting her camera settings. Jack is smiling when he leaves them to it, making his way quickly across the room and pausing only to fist bump with the spiky-haired kid.  He drops down on the seat beside Eric, but before either of them can say anything, Alec urgently catches Jack’s attention.

“Jack. _Masshiro World_ , Jack? Really?! Does this mean you watch anime, because I would have to readjust my worldview and dude, you should warn a guy before you make him do that.” He’s leaning forward across the table, eyes wide, and Eric is reminded of Holster at his most dramatic. He bites his lip to stifle a smile.

“Relax, Alec,” Jack replies, amused. He jerks his head in the direction of the spiky-haired boy near the middle of the room. “Genzo over there just played the song for me on his ipod last month, and we thought it might be fun to do a piano cover. So your worldview is safe.”

Alec leans back with an exaggerated sigh of relief, and Jack turns to Eric. “Bitty here does it all the time. You love making covers, eh? I like the way you do them.”

Eric is amazed at the implications. “Okay, first of all, you watched my vlog? And second, have you even heard of the original songs, Mr. Zimmermann?”

“I looked them up on Google!” Jack defends himself. “You did one last week that was a song by Rhiannon.”

“It’s _Rihanna_ , oh my god.” This ridiculous boy.

Alec and Ms. Trang are watching this interplay with unabashed interest, and Jack seems to notice this and suddenly turns shy.

“Um, Bitty, can I talk to you for a second? Outside? There’s something I need to ask.”

Eric is puzzled, but says okay and walks with Jack to the big double doors. Once they’re in the empty hallway outside the cafeteria, Jack turns to him with a serious look on his face.

“Look, I didn’t really ask you if it was okay for me to watch those videos. I’m sorry. I should have. Do you…do you mind that I did?”

Oh, good gracious. It wasn’t a secret in school that he’d been invited to audition and offered a scholarship because of his youtube channel, and given the gossipy nature of music students he figured some would be curious enough to check it out. It was strange at first, the crossing of real life and the internet, until he’d gotten over it. It wasn’t a big deal anymore.

But, he has to admit, it does surprise him that Jack cared enough to watch, even going beyond initial curiosity to look up the music he was unfamiliar with. Pop music covers and mash ups don’t really seem like his style. He tries to say as much.

“Of course I don’t mind. I know people at school have seen it. I guess I just didn’t think you would bother, though. I mean. Why would you even be interested?”

Jack frowns. “Of course I’m interested. You’re my friend, eh? I wanted to tell you how talented you were, and I thought you might not believe me if I’ve only ever heard you play from start to finish in the music room that one time.”

Lord. The words, and the earnest face, are wreaking havoc on Eric’s unprepared heart, and he has no idea how to deal with it. He never knows how to deal with this boy.

He settles for simple honesty. “Thank you, Jack. For wanting to encourage me, I mean. It really means a lot.”

He shifts his weight on his feet. “Okay. Well. There’s something else, actually.”

Eric just raises a curious eyebrow, wondering what else in the world is coming.

“Will you play a duet with me? Inside?” Jack asks in a rush. “You don’t have to. You really don’t have to. But it’s just a casual thing, eh? Everyone is just having fun, so I thought it might be a good place to give it a try. I mean, if you wanted. Only if you wanted.”

Eric is stunned. “But I don’t have my violin,” is the first instinctive reaction that comes out of him.

Jack shuffles his feet some more, glancing at Eric with furtive eyes. Oh.

“Jack,” he asks slowly. “Do I not have my violin?”

“Ah. It’s in the car? I sneaked it out of your room while you were saying goodbye to Chowder,” he admits. “I’m sorry, this was presumptuous of me, _merde_ , I just—“

Eric cuts him off with a hand on his arm. “Stop,” he says. “Let me think about it for a second.”

The thing is, Dr. Sparrow had suggested that he try performing in a low pressure public environment before the Halloween concert. Returning to the spotlight for the first time in seven years on Hagen’s huge stage in front of hundreds of people seemed like a recipe for disaster. They’d thrown around ideas for doing this, like playing in a bar on open mic night or busking by the fountains in Ford Park downtown, but nothing felt right. This, though. Maybe this could work? Eric knows he won’t have the chance to find an audience as relaxed and friendly as the people inside, singing along to Kenneth and Molly’s voices, some of the kids still munching on chicken tenders. Certainly not in the time he has left before the concert.

Jack’s still quiet, patiently waiting, giving off a distinct “no pressure” vibe. Eric squeezes his arm before letting go, a reassurance that he isn’t mad. He takes a deep breath.

 _Be brave_ , he reminds himself.

“What will we even play?” he asks, before he can chicken out. “We haven’t practiced anything.”

Jack’s eyes widen, and he hurries to tell Eric, “Whatever you want. Absolutely anything you’re comfortable with. I know most piano and violin duets, and I can adapt. Um. Just maybe not Rihanna? Or Adele.”

The idea of it diverts Eric enough that he smiles. “I wonder what you would do if I made you play Beyoncé,” he muses. Jack makes an exaggerated scared face and Eric laughs. It helps.

“Best to stick to something we both know, hmm?” It would have to be something entirely inside Eric’s wheelhouse, something he can play in his sleep. He’ll just have to trust Jack to mold his music around Eric’s. Oddly enough, that part’s the easiest thing about all this. They haven’t rehearsed, and that sends a bolt of terror through him, but he knows that if he picks a piece he knows inside and out, Jack is more than skilled enough to do the delicate work of matching his performance. Unbidden, the videos he’s seen of Jack and Kent Parson playing together on the grandest stages of the world flash in his memory, but he sternly tells himself that this is no time at all to get all insecure about his own amateur status. If anything, Jack’s professional experience with a violinist partner only means that Eric has the best support he could possibly ask for.

An idea comes to him, one of his recent favorites. He’s been playing it a lot lately, inspired by the season, and he’d even performed it with a pianist just the other week in Prof. McClure’s studio. It might work.

“Jack. How about the [first allegro in Vivaldi’s _Autumn_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CwHrI974js)? From his _Four Seasons_? Will you play it with me?”

“Yeah, _yes_ , that’s perfect, Bitty,” Jack assures him, beaming. There’s no trace of doubt or apprehension on his face. “Just the first movement, eh? We can handle that no problem. I’ll go get your violin. Be right back.”

Eric nods and Jack rushes off, long strides eating up the distance quickly. He’s left alone in the empty hallway. With Jack gone, Eric becomes entirely too aware of his accelerating heartbeat. The pounding in his pulse starts to drown out the sound of music from inside the cafeteria, and he takes a few faltering steps backwards until he can lean against the wall. Recalling what he learned in therapy, he begins to practice a slow, deep breathing method that forces him to focus on the in-and-out flow of air in his lungs, the movement of his diaphragm, and the rush of oxygen into his body. After a few minutes of this, his pulse gradually slows down.

Then he works on corralling his thoughts as best as he could. _Ask yourself what’s the worst that can happen,_ Dr. Sparrow had said _. Fears are more powerful when they’re allowed to remain nameless threats._ So Eric makes himself define what he’s afraid of, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. He’s scared that he might embarrass himself, he admits. He’s scared that Jack will hate him. He’s scared that something terrible will happen if he performs in front of an audience, just like it did last time.

First of all, he tells himself sternly, he can survive embarrassment. It’s not gonna kill him. It’s not even gonna give him a failing grade. He doesn’t even have to come back here ever again if he doesn’t want to.

Secondly…Jack’s not gonna hate him. He's _not_. Jack’s the one who wrote that sonata that made Eric feel like someone understood. Jack _does_ understand. He thinks of Jack helping him through a panic attack, confiding in him, listening to him, holding him when reliving the past hurt too much. He remembers Jack lingering on the route between Dr. Sparrow’s office and the Haus, making sure that Eric had someone to talk to if he needed it, or just someone to sit with at a coffee shop. The thought of Annie’s sparks a memory of Eric offhandedly telling Jack about Dr. Sparrow’s advice for a low-key performance debut, and he realizes that Jack must’ve kept thinking about it, trying to find a solution. It’s probably why he brought him here in the first place. He could’ve suggested it ahead of time, Eric thinks, but maybe he wanted to show him what kind of environment it was before doing so. Or maybe his own awkwardness about revealing how he’s been giving free piano lessons to kids for years had led him to take a “show, don’t tell” approach. Who even knows, with that boy.

The point is—Eric breathes deeply, taking the truth deep into himself—Jack won’t hate him if he fails. More than that, Jack will be right there with him in the fray, using all of his considerable skill to make sure that _they_ don’t fail. _And,_ he tells the still-scared kid inside him, _nothing terrible will happen. Nobody will hurt me. This is a safe place, with good people, and I’m not alone anymore._

After a moment, Eric is quite literally not alone, with Jack walking quickly towards him, a very familiar violin case in his hand. His eyes are on Eric, even across the distance: concerned and careful, checking if he’s okay. Eric straightens up and gives a little smile, but Jack remains serious as he comes close.

“You okay?” he asks. “Still wanna do this?”

“Gotta stop running away some time, right?” Eric answers. “I have to at least try. And this seems like a good place to do it.”

“Good,” Jack says, nodding encouragingly. “And, um. I’m glad you trust me enough. To do this with me.”

Eric’s heart spasms. “I’m glad you want to do this with me, Jack.”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re very good. Your fans on the internet agree with me.”

The smug implied _“so there”_ in Jack’s tone startles a snort of amusement out of Eric, and he’s smiling slightly when they walk back into the cafeteria with the violin case now in his grip. Kenneth and Molly are taking their bows onstage, the precocious girl doing a cute little curtsy in response to the applause. Kenneth’s about to ask the crowd who should perform next when he notices Jack and Eric’s entrance.

“Ready for your encore, Zimmermann?” he calls out. “You did tell the kids ‘later’ when they asked.”

There are boisterous goading cheers from the audience, most of whom have finished their lunch and are now wholly focused on the show. Jack smiles.

“I brought my own secret weapon,” he says. “You’re not the only one, Crane.”

Kenneth glances at the violin in Eric’s hand and grins approvingly. “Alriiight, a duet! Give it up for Jack and his friend Eric, boys and girls!”

There’s a round of applause and Eric finds himself suddenly paralyzed, frozen in place, until a warm hand lands firmly on his shoulder.

“Got your back,” Jack says, low and just for him, and Eric takes the first step forward.

 

 

Onstage, he positions himself so that he can see Jack’s face, and he doesn’t even bother telling himself that it’s just for communicating cues—he wants the reassurance and is in no shape to deny it. Jack smiles at him, calm and certain, and it gives him the nerve to look at the crowd.

They’re all having fun, children and grownups alike, faces bright with the delight of food, friendship, and music. He brings to mind the verse that Vivaldi wrote to correspond with the first movement, words of celebration for the autumn harvest, and he pretends that the adrenaline rushing through his veins is nothing more than the energy of the room, lively and vibrant and strong. Then he looks back at Jack. He needs every ounce of courage he can muster to give the cue, and the faith that he sees bolsters him enough to finally raise his violin and bow into position. He nods, just once. And they’re off.

The first Autumn allegro is bold and brash right off the bat, demanding every drop of energy flowing through his nerves. Eric gives it all, surrendering completely, letting the violin transform his frenetic jitters into verve. He hears Jack playing, deft and sure, matching him note for note, utterly fearless. They catch each other’s eyes. Jack grins, suffused with the jubilation of the music, untainted by any doubt. Eric takes in the brightness of it, lets it grow fierce and hot inside him, lets it add its spark to the spirit of Vivaldi’s unrestrained revelry and joy. It’s rapturous, buoyant, completely unafraid.

Then the music slows, and he closes his eyes, imagining a moment of peace in the midst of joyful riot. He’s back at his first party at the Haus, running into Jack upstairs after escaping the crowd, then sitting in his room for long moments afterwards, regaining his balance. The kegster’s noise had been muffled through the floor, the darkness of his room warm and restful, and he infuses that into the music, that pocket of calm in the chaos. Jack gentles his touch on the piano, and it reminds him of how he is with Eric when he needs soothing: a solid, steady presence, a safe place to be. He’s the quiet to Eric’s restless energy, a complementing difference, and somehow exactly what he needs. Just like he is right now.

The music rises again, back to the merriment, back to the pounding, exuberant melody, and he throws himself into it, packing up thoughts of quiet smiles and earnest eyes. Jack follows flawlessly, and Eric can feel his delight, his elated pride, because _they’re doing this_. They’re making it work, they’re pulling it off, and Eric is okay. _He’s okay_. No, he’s more than okay—he’s overjoyed, he’s radiant, and he’s never felt more ecstatic in his life. He’s got himself back. He’s not lost anymore.

He hits the last note, breathing hard, and the crowd claps and cheers but he has eyes only for Jack, the only one who can possibly understand what this means for Eric. They stare at each other, speechless, and he knows his face is showing every bit of his exhilarated disbelief: _Did that really just happen? Oh my god. Oh my god. I can’t believe it._

Jack is grinning openly back at him, and for once, Eric can read exactly what he’s thinking: _You did it. You really did it. Welcome back._

Their goodbyes to Ms. Trang and the others all happen in a bit of a daze for Eric. He thinks that at some point there was an exchange of numbers, but he mostly remembers Jack’s hands on his shoulders as he excuses them both to leave early, his own tight grip on his violin case, and a feeling of impossible lightness in his chest. It’s not until they’re in the car, driving some distance away from the school, that he sort of lands gently back down to earth to the sound of Jack patiently calling his name.

“Hmm?”

“I said, do you wanna get some lunch, maybe?” Jack must’ve asked that question several times, but his voice is full of amused understanding even as he repeats it once more.

“Huh? Oh, yes, lunch. Sure. I guess we didn’t really eat.” Come to think of it, he’s starving, and it’s only noon, so they’ve got some time. Wow. It’s only noon and it feels like the world’s entirely different from the one he woke up to this morning.

“You okay there, Bitty?” There’s still that fond amusement in Jack’s voice.

_“Jack.”_

“Yes?”

“I just performed in public.”

“Yes, you did. I was there.”

“Like, real live people, Jack. An actual audience, right in front of me. Mostly kids, sure, but they totally, absolutely count. It wasn’t just online strangers, or teachers, or classmates who are basically required to attend recitals. It was real! And I didn’t have a panic attack! I almost did, you know, while you were off getting my violin. And then right before we went onstage, good gracious, I thought I would freeze right where I stood. But then we were up there, and the music was just— It was just— And you were so—“

“I knew you could do it, Bitty. You were so brave.” Jack’s smile is as big as the one Eric feels on his own face. “I’m really proud of you,” he adds in a softer voice.

Eric’s throat feels tight. “Jack,” he chokes.

“Yes, Bitty?”

“Thank you for believing in me.”

“Like I said. Got your back.”

 

 

Jack turns the car into a quiet avenue and they stop at a quaint Italian outdoor café, where Eric has the best mushroom risotto of his life and Jack enjoys a seafood carbonara in a little courtyard bordered by autumn-colored trees. Eric’s giddy chatter about their performance and Jack’s crinkly-eyed smiles in response to it carry them through the main course, but by the time they order bowls of gelato for dessert, Eric has calmed down enough to think of other things.

“How did you get involved with the foundation, anyway?” Eric asks, scooping up an adventurous spoonful of bacon pear with blue cheese. Jack had teased him about ordering a cold dessert in autumn, but it was sunny and warm enough in the courtyard, and he was still feeling bold and brave.

Jack, naturally, had ordered the maple walnut, which had provoked Eric’s own teasing about whether he would feel any less Canadian if he had gotten something else. Now, Jack is licking his spoon and it’s so unexpectedly distracting that Eric momentarily forgets his own question, making him blink twice before he registers Jack’s reply.

“It’s a long story. You sure you wanna hear it?”

“Huh?” Eric says. “ _Oh_. Oh, yeah. Of course. We’ve got time.” He covers his lapse by waving a breezy hand at their leafy, sun-dappled surroundings, indicating that there’s no better place for long stories than here, especially when they don’t have to be back at Samwell for hours.

Jack pokes at his gelato with a spoon, glancing up at Eric from under his lashes. Eric straightens up, suddenly realizing that what he’s about to hear must be pretty significant.

“When I was in rehab,” Jack starts, his eyes still lowered, his tone casual as if he isn’t entrusting Eric with a story very few people must have heard. Eric’s paying close attention, though, so he sees the tight grip of Jack’s fingers on his spoon, betraying his apprehension. What is he afraid of? That Eric might judge him for his past? He moves his foot to bump Jack’s under the table, hoping to communicate that he has nothing to worry about.

Jack looks up at him, and whatever he sees in Eric’s face must be reassuring, because his hand relaxes and one corner of his mouth twitches up. When he speaks, his voice is more natural, truly at ease.

“When I was in rehab,” he says, “my parents coped by helping out with their friend’s musical foundation for at-risk youth in Montreal. They really got into it; they’re still actively involved now, actually. When I got out, I saw how it…how it changed them, almost. Working with those kids, it taught them to better listen, communicate. It helped them with me, as well. It didn’t solve everything. But it helped.

“I wasn’t ready to get back onstage yet, but I thought I might like to do something like that. My doctor agreed that it might be a good idea. But I couldn’t exactly do it in Canada, eh? Or even here in the States. It would become public, before long.

“Then I remembered this Vietnamese maestro I met, on my last tour. He looked about a hundred years old, but he was one of the most _alive_ people I had ever met. He told me stories of his work teaching music to street children and orphans in Hanoi, and his eyes were so bright and excited. He was one of those people, eh? The ones who never stopped loving what they do. At that time the only thing I could do to help was to write a check, but he gave me his card, and that card turned out to be…well. Kind of my salvation, as _maman_ would say.

“I called him up, asking if I could come and volunteer. He said if I would commit for a year, then he would keep up my training, while I worked with the kids. There was no question about it. I wanted to go. My doctor helped me find a therapist in Hanoi, and my parents came to visit whenever they could. I stayed there for two years. Nobody knew who I was.”

Eric is listening in rapt attention, his half-full bowl of gelato forgotten. One particular detail makes him speak up, at this point.

“Wait, two years? Gracious. That’s a long time, Jack, to be so far away, especially when you were still a teenager when you left.”

Jack only shrugs. “It didn’t really feel like a long time,” he says. “ThầyMinh taught me a lot, and not just music. The kids, too. I even learned the language."

“Really? Wait, so you can speak Vietnamese with Lardo?”

“Sure,” Jack says. “We kind of bonded over it, when Shitty introduced us.”

“You mostly communicate in eyebrow movements and stoic silence, though,” Eric teases.

Jack rolls his eyes at him. “I talk enough when I’m with you,” he says, going back to his neglected gelato.

It’s true, Eric realizes. Jack is usually happy to listen when Eric is talking, which is most of the time, admittedly. But when asked, like now, he’s become more and more willing to open up. Eric’s unruly heart jumps at the thought, but he firmly decides to ignore it and scoops half-melted gelato into his mouth instead.

“Gosh,” he says, after a moment. “I can’t believe you were in Vietnam for two years while the media thought you’d eloped to Jamaica with a concert hall usher.”

Jack laughs, bright and sudden. “I guess we succeeded in keeping it a secret, eh?” he says, adorably smug. Eric eats another spoonful of cold dessert.

“So you decided to keep it up when you came here? Teaching music to children, I mean.”

Jack nods. “Yeah. Ms. Trang is ThầyMinh's daughter," he reveals, chuckling at Eric's look of surprise. “I told you he was about a hundred years old. Might be immortal, I don’t know. When I was about to leave, I told him I wanted to keep teaching kids. So he got me in touch with Ms. Trang, who had already established Forte Future here. It was one of the reasons I chose Samwell. I knew I could volunteer for her, and she wouldn’t make a big deal of having Robert Zimmermann’s son in her organization.”

Eric can only shake his head slowly in amazement.

Jack shrugs, obviously embarrassed. “I can’t help out as much as I like. There isn’t time. But it keeps me grounded, so I keep going back. It reminds me of what music is supposed to be, away from the spotlights.”

Eric remembers how Jack was that morning, in the borrowed classroom filled with inexpensive practice instruments, in front of an antiquated piano upon a makeshift stage in the cafeteria, surrounded by people who love music for music’s sake. He thinks he understands what he means. Jack fought hard to get to this place, to regain his equilibrium, but from the haunted look in his eyes some days, not to mention late nights in the music room, Eric can tell that it’s a battle he’s still fighting. So he’d found himself a touchstone, a reminder of what’s real, what music means to him, and he’s doing his best not to let go of it. Eric thinks it says a lot about Jack that he anchors himself in kindness, in giving back to others, and he wonders how someone as complex, brilliant, and extraordinary as Jack Zimmermann can possibly exist in the real world. Yet there he is, sitting across the table from one Eric Bittle, casually eating gelato in the Boston sunshine as if he isn’t the biggest anomaly in Eric’s simple, ordinary life.

He looks down and finishes his dessert.

 

 

 

 **@omgcheckplease:** How are some people allowed to exist? I mean. Is it even legal to be THAT amazing? #stop #nodontstop

10:41 PM – Oct 25 2014

 **@tabbyfan076:** @omgcheckplease Someone has a crush. ;)

 **@omgcheckplease:** @tabbyfan076 I have NO idea what you're talking about.

 **@omgcheckplease:** @tabbyfan076 I only know I had a SPECTACULAR day today. (•‿•)

 

 **@omgcheckplease:** Eric Bittle is back, y'all.   (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

10:47 PM Oct 25 2014

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a teacher who used to say, "You can only get up where you've fallen down." She meant that the place of your greatest defeat can also be the place of your redemption. That thought definitely influenced this chapter. 
> 
> Right! Music links within the text. Distracting because you can't help but click them? Or less distracting because now you don't have to open a new tab and hunt the thing down yourself? Or should I just link them in the notes? (Shoutout to [Burning_Up_A_Sun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun) who taught me how to do that properly.) Let me know what you think.
> 
> ALSO, a heads up: This AU will be taking a break for ONE WEEK ONLY. I'm gonna use next week to work on a canon-compliant fic that grew legs and ran away from me. Gotta go chase it down so I can post it. The next chapter in this 'verse will be posted the week after next. Hope to see you guys in canon-land!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely [Burning_Up_A_Sun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun) has been kind enough to offer to beta, so if you notice an improvement in the writing, we all have her to thank for that. I've certainly noticed an improvement in my confidence, and I'm beyond grateful. Your wonderful comments (!!!) have also been helping in that regard, and if I could bake y'all a pie, I would. Pies for everyone! Bitty would definitely approve.

**@omgcheckplease:** Thank the Lord for trick-or-treaters giving me a good excuse for my nervous baking today. So much nervous baking.

9:09 AM – Oct 31 2014

 **@omgcheckplease:** (Queen B is the perfect soundtrack for rolling dough, jsyk.)

 **@omgcheckplease:** This Haus is gonna be the cookie-topia of Samwell or I’ll eat my violin.

 **@omgcheckplease:** No really I might actually eat it if I didn’t have baking to distract me.

 

 

 **@omgcheckplease:** If y’all are going to the Halloween concert tonight, send good vibes up the stage will you please

2:33 PM – Oct 31 2014

 

 

Eric fusses with his hair in front of the mirror, struggling with the stubborn cowlick that forever refuses to stay in place. It’s still an hour and a half before call time at Hagen for the midnight concert, but he’s already dressed in the suit he'll be wearing to perform. His parents have called, his violin is tuned, and his other essentials are packed up and ready to go. Now he can't think of anything else to do. Eric's hausmates are downstairs, fighting over what cookies are left after most trick-or-treaters have come and gone, but they’re still the quietest house on the block. Halloween parties are raging up and down the street. Many of those partygoers will make their way to Hagen just before midnight, some still in their costumes, to watch the Halloween Chamber Music Concert. It’s a Samwell tradition, apparently.

Eric's hands won’t stop shaking. He gives up on his hair and sits on the bed, fumbling to untangle Señor Bunny from the duvet. He curls his trembling, sweaty hands around the little rabbit, thumbs caressing the faded fabric. This old childhood friend of his had seen him through worse things than a high-pressure performance, and its warm, familiar softness is a direct contrast to the cold hard feeling in his gut. He tries to take comfort from it.

Six days ago, he played a Vivaldi duet with Jack Zimmermann in front of more than fifty people. Eric had been terrified at first, but he put himself out there anyway, and it had been  _amazing_. It’s gonna be the same tonight, he tells himself. It’s gonna be scary, and those first few steps out onto the stage are gonna be a trial, but he’s gonna get it done. And it will be fine, just fine. Hopefully even better than fine.

Of course, the friendly, music-loving, mostly-kids audience in Boston might be considered drastically different from tonight’s expected crowd of hundreds of college students coming straight from Halloween revelry. They’ll probably be drunk, rowdy—

A knock on the door interrupts Eric’s helter-skelter thoughts, arresting the rapidly rising pace of his heartbeat. He takes a moment to breathe and let his pulse settle back down to somewhat-normal. Then he tucks Señor Bunny under his pillow and gets up to open the door for a much-welcome distraction.

It’s Chowder. He looks rather pale, the dark suit he’s wearing emphasizing his ashen cheeks even further, and he’s holding up a hopelessly crumpled bowtie.

“Bitty, um,” his lost little lamb says. “Can you help me?”

Eric resists the urge to squeeze him in a hug until color comes back to his face. It probably doesn’t work that way.

“Oh, honey,” he sighs. “Of course. Come inside and let’s get you sorted out.”

He takes the bowtie, gets his iron out of the closet, and carefully irons the little strip of black fabric on the bed. Chowder steps into the room and fidgets restlessly from foot to foot, radiating nervous energy and uncharacteristic silence. He’s playing in a piano trio tonight and had spent the whole day bursting with high-strung chatter, but now it seems like he's run out of steam. Eric’s heart twinges in his chest.

He unplugs the iron, turns back to Chowder with the now-smooth piece of silk, and reaches up to loop it around his neck. Eric's mind is racing, struggling to find the right thing to say, noting with dismay the rapid pulse at his precious cellist child’s throat. As far as he knows, none of his hausmates who are performing tonight have Eric’s history of panic-attack level stage fright that led to years of shunning the spotlight. But this is still their first major concert in Samwell. They’re all understandably anxious. Nursey and Dex, who are playing together in a brass quintet, have even stopped bickering and have spent the past couple of days glued to each other’s side. Whether it's for support or superstition, Eric doesn’t know, but he’s definitely not the only one feeling the pressure.

“There, right as rain,” Eric says brightly, giving the bowtie one last tweak. He steps back and considers Chowder’s formal evening wear. “You look wonderful,” he says, the truth of it lending ease to his smile. It falters, however, when he notices just how distraught the kid looks.

“You’re gonna be great, Chowder,” he says, with all the conviction he can muster. “You’re the best cellist I know, and you’re gonna be amazing out there tonight.”

Chowder nods, bracing himself. “Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.” Then he turns to leave the room.

He turns back after only one step. “Bitty?” he asks softly, clinging to the doorjamb. “Are you scared?”

Oh, child. “Terrified,” he confesses.

“Me too,” Chowder admits.

“Well,” Eric says, reaching for the courage he’s recently found in himself. “We’re gonna do it anyway, right?”

“Right,” Chowder agrees, steeling his spine. “We’re gonna…what was that thing you said your dad likes to say?”

 _“Giterdone,”_ he replies, the mention of Coach evoking the familiar ache in his chest and fierce desire to do well in his gut. Eric focuses on the latter. “Yes, we’re gonna do that,” he says, resolved. “Go and get your cello, go on. We might as well call the others and leave early for Hagen.”

Chowder agrees and lopes off to his room after thanking Eric for fixing his bowtie, his cheeks a little less pale. When Eric moves to gather his things, he realizes that his hands are shaking somewhat less.

 

 

Dex and Nursey clatter down the stairs from the attic, carrying their instrument cases and clad in matching black tie performance garb. Nursey has his free hand on Dex’s shoulder and Dex, for once, isn’t shrugging it off. He’s wearing a look of grim determination, like a soldier marching off to battle, while Nursey’s trademark chill smile is a little strained around the edges. They reach Eric and Chowder who are waiting for them on the second floor landing.

“Well?” Nursey says, putting on a smirk. “Let’s get this done, yeah?”

They walk down the stairs, too tense for chitchat, only to be greeted at the bottom by a sudden shower of confetti and boisterous cheers. Shitty is there, holding a green bottle with one hand and a couple of actual glass champagne flutes in the other, with Lardo carrying several more and grinning madly. Ransom and Holster are cackling at their surprise, brandishing confetti cannons, while Jack reveals a small smile from behind his camera.

“What on God’s green earth is going on?” Bitty exclaims.

“Samwell concert debut send-off!” Shitty yells. “Haus tradition, brahs!” He pops the bottle open and starts pouring out what he reveals is sparkling cider, explaining, “We’re saving the actual champagne for the after party; it’s gonna be fucking ‘swawesome.”

Dex grimaces slightly when he’s handed a flute. “Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves here?”

“It’s called faith, man,” Holster solemnly tells him. “Bros have it in their bros.”

“Totally,” Ransom agrees. “You guys are gonna represent!”

Once everyone has sparkling cider, Shitty clears his throat for attention and raises his flute.

“A toast!” he proclaims. “For our dear hausmates who are losing their concert virginities on one of Samwell’s esteemed halls of music on this hallowed night. When you walk onto that stage tonight, my brothers, you will not only carry your instruments, your talent, and your years of training—you will also carry the confidence that we your friends have in you. And it’s _a lot_ , brahs. It’s a motherfucking lot of confidence, for reals. We know you’re gonna fucking rock it. You are gonna bring,” Shitty punches the air, “—the house,” another dramatic air punch, “—down!”

“Cheers!” Lardo cries, and the others all thrust up their glasses and take up the enthusiastic refrain. Eric looks around. He sees Chowder flushing with happiness, Nursey’s smile relaxing into the real deal, and Dex’s jaw losing some of its tightness. He looks at the cider in his glass and sees that it’s vibrating only the slightest amount, the tremor in his hands gradually subsiding under this outpouring of belief and support from the best friends he’s ever had. There are back slaps, hugs, assurances of how they’re gonna “fucking blow everyone’s fucking minds, dude,” and then there’s Jack insisting on a photo of the four of them in their concert black. By the time Lardo announces that it’s half an hour to call time and they should start making their way to Hagen, Eric realizes that the cold pit in his stomach has turned into a warm, comforting glow.

“Wreck shit tonight, boys,” Lardo says with a grin, and they’re on their way.

 

 

Jack insists on carrying Eric’s violin case for the walk, pointing out how Shitty had already taken Chowder’s enormous cello case, and that Rans and Holster are busy negotiating who gets which instrument from Dex and Nursey based on some weird attic roomie custom that Eric’s not even gonna try to understand. Eric wonders who made up these absurd Haus traditions, and just how many pot gummies they had eaten while doing so, but then Lardo starts leading their procession across campus and he has other things to think about.

“So, uh,” Jack starts, matching his pace to Eric’s. “Bitty. How are you doing?”

“Better than I've been all day,” Eric admits. “That was really sweet, you know. What you guys did back there. It ah…it helped a lot. So thanks.”

“We mean it,” Jack says earnestly. “It’s not just Haus tradition or anything. We really believe in you. You know that, right?”

“I know, Jack,” Eric says, his voice cracking a little. He can’t find the words to express how very much that faith means to him, and he thinks that if he tries he might just end up a sobbing mess.

Jack just gives him a soft smile and transfers Eric’s violin case to his other hand, shifting just a bit closer. They walk the rest of the way like that, arms occasionally brushing as they bring up the rear of the group.  When they finally get to Hagen Auditorium, Eric reaches out to reclaim his violin from Jack, realizing as he does that his hands have completely stopped shaking at last.

 

 

His hands stay steady, but they start sweating again backstage as he watches Temi, their second violin, pace back and forth in their little corner of the green room. Florence is slumped in a chair hugging her cello, eyes closed while humming their piece to herself. Beside Eric, Kaye Lynn is browsing funny gifs on reddit, occasionally turning her phone to show him. Her other hand is restlessly plucking the strings of the viola in her lap, however, so Eric can tell that she’s not as unaffected as she seems. He considers suggesting another quick run-through, but the brass quintet is still doing theirs. It’s too loud. Besides, they’d already done that. They’re as prepared as they’re ever gonna get.

It’s fifteen minutes to showtime.

Eric excuses himself to go to the bathroom. He stares at his reflection while washing his hands, seeing the lines of strain on his face as the measure of calm he’d gained gives way to the nervous tension building up in the green room. There are familiar hints of impending panic in his eyes, waiting to overwhelm him like so many times before. Not today, he tells himself sternly.

He walks into a cubicle, locks the door, and sits on the closed toilet seat. Repeating the physical and mental exercises he learned in therapy, Eric reminds himself of how they’d already proven effective back in Boston. He can do this. He mentally chants his mantra of _be brave_ over and over again, trying to drown out the insidious whisper of doubt, telling that dispiriting voice to kindly shut the hell up. Needing reinforcement, Eric reaches for the phone in his pocket. He's about to reread his mama’s string of encouraging texts when the phone vibrates in his hand, and he sees several messages pop up. It’s Jack. 

 

> I know you’re brave, Eric Bottle.
> 
> I mean Bittle
> 
> Good lick
> 
> I mean duck
> 
> Stupid adult crustacean
> 
> AUTO CORRECT DAMN IT
> 
> Good L U C K
> 
> That’s what I was trying to say
> 
> :-)

 

Eric bursts into snickers at Jack’s phone struggles. Before he knows it, he’s laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the wall. It’s as if all the tension in his body’s trying to escape, and Eric releases it willingly—whoever hears him laughing like a loon in here will just have to deal. A fresh wave of hilarity starts when he imagines Jack glaring at his phone over the disobedient auto correct, but beneath the hysteria there’s a softer warmth cresting over him. It feels a lot like the glow that had banished the cold pit in his stomach earlier.

When he finally straightens up, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, Eric feels the kind of loose that he only gets after hours of baking. He goes back out to the green room, typing out a quick “thanks :)” with dry, steady fingers, sending it to Jack with a grateful smile.

 

 

Four independent ensembles are performing tonight, from the dozen or so that had auditioned for the chance. Dex and Nursey’s brass quintet will go first, then a wind quintet composed of second year girls who also played in last year's Halloween concert, followed by Chowder with a pianist and a violinist in a piano trio. Eric, Temi, Florence, and Kaye Lynn will be the final performance, playing [“ _The Bird”_ quartet from Haydn’s Op. 33](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbIvpdhY0qk). None of these relatively new groups have the star power of the Samwell Symphony Orchestra or any of the school’s premier chamber ensembles—usually composed of more experienced upperclassmen—whose concerts are regularly featured in state-wide papers. But the student that Eric had replaced in this quartet’s first chair had gone on to become the concertmaster in the SSO as well as the first violinist in the Samwell String Quartet, and a tiny hopeful part of him dreams of doing the same. First, however, he has to get through tonight.

Time moves weirdly for Eric when the concert starts. He remembers standing with Chowder in the wings, watching breathlessly as the brass quintet powers through a flawless performance. They cheer at the pitch-perfect ending, and Dex and Nursey’s relieved, ecstatic smiles light up the green room, turning earnest as they assure Chowder and Eric that they’ll do just as well with their ensembles. Then before Eric knows it, they’re sending Chowder and his group out onto the stage. Pride battles with nerves inside him as he delights in Chowder’s masterful playing while remaining deeply aware of the countdown in his head ticking down every second to his own turn. The trio finishes to rousing applause, and Eric’s pride eclipses his nerves for one stunning moment when his brilliant musical sunbeam bounds off the stage with a grin, tackling him and Dex and Nursey in his excitement. He hugs back tightly, telling Chowder how proud he is of him. Then Eric hears the master of ceremonies announcing the string quartet, and it’s like the whole world goes quiet.

He knows Dex, Nursey, and Chowder are clapping his shoulders for luck as they stand there in the wings, Dex lightly punching his arm with a “go get ‘em, Bits.” But his eyes are glued on Kaye Lynn, Temi, and Florence. For one heady second they just look at each other, breathless on the brink of the moment. Then Eric remembers that he is brave, and takes the first step out into the spotlight.

 

 

The lights are blinding.

He can’t see much of the audience. What few faces he can see are hazy. Blurred out in the glow.

His friends are there. Somewhere. Hoping for the best with every breath.

His professors, too. Classmates, competitors. They will hear every mistake.

Strangers, as well. The performance may be a triumph, or a total disaster—it won’t matter, not to them. As long as it’s entertaining.

Eric doesn’t know where they are out there. The ones who wish them well, the ones who are watching for failure. The ones who just don’t care. He doesn’t know.

He’s only certain of the violin in his grasp, the nearness of his fellow musicians, and the thrumming space between all four of them. It’s strangely intimate, for all that they’re so exposed.

Chamber music is a conversation, Prof. Atley likes to say.

Eric remembers how it had felt, playing with Jack. How they had responded to each other, so naturally.

A conversation. Okay then.

They begin.

 

 

The green room is a flurry of handshakes, compliments, and congratulations from more people than Eric can possibly remember in his overwhelmed state. He even takes a selfie with the dean and Prof. Atley, all three of them beaming wide. He’s also lost count of how many exhilarated group hugs he’s shared with his ensemble, but it’s a _lot_. At some point, Kaye Lynn even started crying and couldn’t stop, so Eric gave her his pocket square and they all squeezed around her for possibly the tenth time.

It’s nearly three am when the backstage hullaballoo winds down and Lardo’s able to hustle him, Dex, Chowder, and Nursey out of Hagen. Their hausmates came to see them in the green room right after the concert, but didn’t want to monopolize them from what Shitty called their “adoring public.” They just picked up the instruments to take back to the Haus, saying Lardo will tell Eric and the others where to meet up later, leaving after a few more proud hugs and fist bumps. Lardo says they’re now all waiting by the Pond. So the five of them cut across Lake Quad in their formal shoes, their high spirited chatter echoing in the early morning air.

When they arrive, Jack pops open a bottle of champagne while the others whoop their congratulations and the best I-told-you-so’s Eric has ever heard. There’s a wide quilt serving as a picnic blanket, several six-packs of beer, and a couple of boxes of the mini-pies that Eric left in the fridge. He didn’t think his smile could get any bigger, but he proves himself wrong.

The night is cold, but thankfully Eric finds some extra blankets among the picnic supplies. The alcohol is also giving him a pleasantly warm buzz, and pretty soon he’s edging past tipsy and closer to sloshed. He’s still doing much better than Chowder, who’s gotten into his darling head that he wants to wade into the lake. Nursey’s drunk enough that he’s decided to join him—something about following the path the moon's reflection makes on the water, bless his poetic little soul—but it’s four in the morning in _November_ , dear lord, his ducklings are gonna die of the cold! Dex just scowls at the two of them and is no help at all, so Eric shuffles around in his blanket cocoon, turns to the nearest responsible adult, and—oh, it’s Shitty.

“Do something,” he hisses. A small corner of his mind is fascinated by how Shitty looks like he’s sunbathing in shorts and a crop top in the middle of the night, but he’s got other fish to fry at the moment. “You’re the RA!”

“Am I, Bits?” Shitty drawls philosophically, from where he’s cushioning his head on Lardo’s stomach. “Or am I just a brah, hanging out with his brahs, celebrating a beautiful night of musical triumph?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Eric despairs. He turns to a more promising option. “Lardo?”

“Got your back, Bits,” Lardo assures him. She then rises up on her elbows, puts two fingers between her lips, and blows out a sharp whistle. “Rans! Holtzy! Catch those frogs or Bitty will never bake you pies again!”

Ransom and Holster immediately turn from where they’ve been skipping stones over the water’s surface to see Chowder and Nursey stumbling their way down the shore. With a war cry, they run towards the self-endangering frogs, tackling each one and bearing them back to the quilt. They dump the two boys right on top of poor Dex, whose protests are muffled even further when Holster, then Ransom, land on top of the pile of drunk music students, cackling with glee. Jack, who’s been practicing his nighttime photography by capturing their picnic set-up against the background of the shimmering lake, wastes no time documenting the spectacle.

“I want a copy of those pictures!” Eric tells Jack, laughing up at his wide-shouldered silhouette against the starry sky. Jack looks down at him in amusement, watching Eric scootch over to the very edge of the picnic quilt to avoid flailing limbs as Lardo and Shitty throw themselves into the fray.

“Got enough blankets there, Bitty?” Jack teases. “I didn’t even know there was a person under that pile of blankets until you talked.”

“Oh hush,” Eric retorts. He may have swaddled himself with no less than three of the extra blankets, but that’s a perfectly normal reaction to the nighttime chill of autumn, thank you very much. “Just because you sleep in a bed of snow with glacier ice for pillows up in Canada doesn’t mean more reasonable human beings don’t get cold.”

“Glacier ice, eh?” Jack smirks, dropping down to sit cross-legged beside Eric. “I don’t know where you got that idea, Bitty. Just normal ice is fine. Glaciers are a limited resource, you know.” He grins crookedly, and Eric loves everything about this night.

“You were great up there,” Jack says in a softer voice. The others have somewhat settled down by now, lying on the quilt and trying to identify constellations.

“I kept thinking of Boston,” Eric says, just as softly. “I kept thinking…if I could do it once, then I could do it again.”

“Knew you were brave,” Jack says smugly, bumping their knees together.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bitty replies, rolling his eyes and hoping it’s dark enough to hide his blush. Then he grins, slyly. “But we’ve gotta fix the settings on your phone, hmm? Can’t have the stupid adult crustacean ruining your texts.”

Jack groans, and Eric dissolves into giggles, the sound joining the rising racket of the others arguing about whether there’s such a thing as the Goat Fish Constellation. Their voices and laughter echo across the moonlit lake, and Eric thinks that it’s just another kind of music, really, no less beautiful than the kind they played tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon shout outs, I love 'em. This chapter's particularly shouty. I'll post them in the comments, but here are a couple (with thanks to [omgeverythingplease](http://omgeverythingplease.tumblr.com/)):
> 
> Not in this universe, bb. The pumpkin kids deserve your cookies. :)
> 
> The midnight concert on Halloween is a thing; I just changed it from the orchestra to chamber ensembles. I DO WHAT I WANT. *steals canon details and flees snickering madly*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a little ridiculous posting this chapter so out of season, but here's what I'm thankful for:
> 
> \- amazing, incredible readers who come to read each week and leave such lovely comments. I think about you when I'm writing and you inspire me, you really do.  
> \- my wonderful beta, [Burning_Up_A_Sun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun), who made sure I didn't undercook a turkey, butcher any American traditions, or lose my damn mind. That's only a fraction of the magic she does.
> 
> So. Let's pretend it's November, shall we?

Eric’s wiping down the kitchen counters for the night, absently humming the tune Ransom’s been playing on his guitar all day. The fragments of melody filtered through the ceiling of Eric’s room loud and clear, with low, indecipherable singing interspersed with wordless exclamations of either triumph or frustration—all familiar indicators of one Justin Oluransi in full-blown coral reef songwriting mode. And if Eric needed confirmation of Ransom’s status, he got it when he heard Holster dragging Nursey and Dex down the stairs into a mandatory be-quiet-or-else huddle on the second floor landing. From his room, Eric could only make out “—lyrics are a _delicate_ process, okay,” followed by, “—swear to Liz Lemon, Nursey, if you say _chill_ one more time, I’ll let Dex stuff you in his horn,” but Eric thinks he’s got the gist of Holster's crusade. _Coral reef protector mode engaged,_ Eric thinks. He adds peaches and blueberries to his shopping list so that Ransom and Holster can have their favorite pies when they both return to normal. Well. As normal as they ever get.

Ransom’s not the only one lost in his own creative world. Jack cooped himself up in the music room right after diner, and Eric’s already mastered the new macaron recipe his mother shared on Pinterest, yet Jack’s still in there. At first, Eric could hear him practicing the piece he’ll be playing in the post-Thanksgiving concert. But it’s been quiet for a couple of hours now, so Eric knows he must be working on something new. Unlike Ransom, Jack plays too softly for anyone else to hear when he’s writing. It’s as if the world’s not allowed even a hint of his work until it’s perfect. The only reason Eric knows Jack hasn’t gone upstairs yet, when it’s nearly midnight, is because he usually drops by the kitchen for a cup of tea to wind himself down before going to bed.

Eric turns off the heat on the ginger tea he’s brewing, setting out a jar of honey and a small bowl of lemon slices on the counter. He started making the therapeutic tea for Shitty after the singer came home from one particularly grueling studio session with a scratch in his throat. Enticed by the scent, the others also tried a cup, and soon the whole Haus became addicted to it. Eric got into the habit of making sure he has fresh ginger root, honey, and lemons on hand. You can’t really drink tea on the go like you do with coffee, Eric has always believed. The tea can’t do its job properly that way. You have to stop, sit down for a while, take a breather. Making the tea is as much about giving the people he loves a moment of rest as it is about any health benefits from the ingredients.

As if on cue, Jack appears in the kitchen doorway, looking exhausted and rumpled with his hair going in every direction. Eric imagines Jack’s long, pianist fingers running through those soft-looking dark strands, and he quickly turns away to get mugs from the cupboard. _No one should look that good when they’re tired,_ Eric thinks. His poor heart’s already sorely tested as it is.

Eric takes a deep breath and desperately hopes his blush is under control by the time he turns back to smile at Jack.

“Tea?” he offers.

“Thanks, Bitty.” Jack’s voice is husky with fatigue. Then he stretches up to work out the kinks in his spine from hunching over the piano for hours, and he looks so...well. Eric busies himself with measuring out honey before he’s tempted to stare, and he thinks he’s doing okay until Jack murmurs, “You always know just what I need.”

Eric’s a nice boy. He calls his mama regularly and he takes care of his friends and he tries not to gape at handsome men who stretch until their t-shirts ride up and reveal their happy trail even when they do it right in Eric’s kitchen. He doesn’t know why he’s being punished by having to hear Jack Zimmermann say in a low voice at midnight that Eric knows just what he needs. _If only_ , he thinks.

If only.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thanksgiving approaches quickly, and Eric talks his parents into letting him stay at Samwell for the holiday, since all his hausmates are also staying for one reason or another. Truth be told, his mama seems relieved that he enjoys his new school so much, and that he found a group of friends where he fits right in. Eric’s loneliness at GSU must’ve been so apparent to her last year, and probably just as obvious as his happiness here, where he feels like he belongs. They’re both in such high spirits that Eric impulsively suggests that she and Coach take a long-overdue vacation for the holiday, and she actually considers it. Soon their shared Pinterest has new bed-and-breakfast photos along with all the Thanksgiving recipes pinned on it.

It’s important to Eric that Thanksgiving Day go well. Not only is it his first time to be completely in charge of the meal, it would also be a much-needed break for his hausmates. November is turning out to be a really stressful month. Ransom and Holster will play in the SSO’s post-Thanksgiving concert, while Jack will perform a concerto with them. Shitty, meanwhile, will be one of the lead vocalists in the winter songfest just two weeks later, and Eric, Dex, Nursey, and Chowder will be in the accompanying orchestra. Everyone’s busy with near-constant rehearsals, in addition to their ongoing classes.

For once, Eric’s actually the most relaxed about everything that’s going on. One, he already has his freshman gen ed. credits from GSU, and two, being in the accompanying orchestra doesn’t stress him out that much. Not that he isn’t concerned about giving his best, but he’ll be playing in the pit with more than thirty other musicians, and everyone’s focus will be on the singers. So, as Nursey would say, Eric’s pretty chill about the whole thing. He devotes his energy into making sure his hausmates get a respite from the stress.

He’s not the only one. Lardo intercepts Jack at the kitchen doorway one night when he tries to make a beeline for the music room right after helping Eric wash the dinner dishes.

“You’ve been cooped up in there all afternoon, and before that you spent all morning in the studio with Prof. Lawson,” she tells him. “Mandatory bro-time break.”

Jack glares at her, but then Lardo says something quietly in Vietnamese, and Jack’s shoulders slump as he gives in.

Eric feels himself relax as well. Jack’s been brittle around the edges lately, so Eric’s thankful for Lardo’s intervention. She seals the deal. “I’m just sayin’, dude, it’s not ‘swawesome that I haven’t seen the latest photos yet. You promised to show me.”

“Fine,” Jack sighs “I’ll just go get my laptop.”

“Oh!” Eric interjects. “If you’re going upstairs, would you be a dear and bring this thermos of tea up to Shitty? He said he’s turning in early to conserve his voice, and I’m worried that he’s still feeling that tickle in his throat.”

“Sure,” Jack says. The soft smile he gives Eric is worlds away from his put-upon glare just half a minute ago.

Eric beams back at him. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll have mugs of tea for you and Lardo as well when you come back down.” He hands over the thermos and immediately heads over to the fridge for more lemons. Eric’s already rummaging around in the fruit and veg drawer by the time he hears Jack’s footsteps walking away.

Lemons in hand, Eric walks over to the cupboard to get the mugs—then his brain screeches to a halt as he suddenly realizes what he just said. _Oh dear god in_ _heaven_. He stands there, frozen with his arm still extended towards the cupboard, while the word “sweetheart” echoes inside his skull.

“You okay there, Bits?” a highly amused voice lilts behind him.

Eric spins around quickly to see Lardo raising an eyebrow at him, biting her bottom lip like she’s trying to hold back a laugh.

“I’m from Georgia!” he defends, feeling his face heat up. “We say that all the time!”

Lardo raises her hands. “I wasn’t gonna say anything,” she claims, putting on a guileless look. “Not one word.

“No, really,” Eric insists. “It’s a Southern thing.”

“Sure, Bitty,” Lardo says kindly. “Weren’t you about to get something from that cupboard?”

“Right,” Eric says. He shakes off his embarrassment-induced stiffness and grabs the mugs for the tea. He just needs to act normal. Which shouldn’t be difficult. After all, it’s a perfectly normal thing, calling people all kinds of endearments. At least it is in the South, and he is definitely from the South, so. Normal. He’s got this.

By the time Jack returns, Eric already has the ginger tea doctored with the right amounts of honey and lemon that Jack and Lardo prefer. He’s not even blushing (he hopes) when he sets the mugs down on the table as Jack powers on the laptop.

Then Jack pulls out another chair and looks expectantly at him. Eric waits for Jack to either tease him about what he said or…or something, anything. Some sort of awkwardness to match his own mortification. But there’s nothing. If there’s any awkwardness it’s from how Eric’s been standing there just a second too long, looking at Jack, who’s starting to get this tiny furrow between in his forehead as he watches Eric back. Stifling a sigh of relief, he smiles at Jack, grabs his own mug from the counter, and settles down. Apparently there’s no need to be embarrassed. Jack probably didn’t even notice, or he’s gotten used to Eric’s Southern ways by now.

If calling Jack “sweetheart” was more of a slip of his defenses rather than his tongue—it’ll just be Eric’s little secret.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **@omgcheckplease:** Happy Turkey Day y’all! I’m more prepared for today than I was for my music theory midterm. #sorrynotsorry Let’s do this thing! #hausgiving

6:44 AM – NOV 27 2014

 

 

“That’s not how you hold the knife, you idiot, why can’t you just—“

“Yo, chill, I know what I’m—“

“You’re gonna cut yourself, see if I care, you—“

“Guys, guys, stop fighting, or Bitty won’t let us help anymore….”

Eric keeps his head down over the dough he’s rolling and pretends not to hear the whispered squabbling behind him at the kitchen table. Dex, Nursey, and Chowder begged to be allowed to assist in the kitchen for Thanksgiving. Eric finally gave in, with the strict condition that there would be no fighting _or else_. He would _not_ have his food ruined by negativity, he told them sternly. All three nodded, earnest, eyes flicking to the sugar pumpkins meant for maple pumpkin pie. _Ah,_ Eric thought. He then offered a deal: if they can get through peeling the carrots, potatoes, and yams with no incident, then they can be the ones to open and clean the pumpkins, and Eric will toast the seeds for them. Three faces lit up, so now Eric has three extra pairs of hands in the kitchen.

So far, they’ve been good, whispered arguments notwithstanding. Dex and Nursey are still unable to keep from poking at each other, but since the Halloween concert, their jabs have lost any real vicious edge. Even Chowder must’ve noticed, since he’s stopped coming to Eric all worried about his two closest friends. Eric doesn’t know what happened there, but he’ll take it.

The morning rushes by in a flurry of baking and cooking. Around noon, he sends the frogs out with the heated pans of lasagna he made yesterday to serve in the living room so that he can keep the kitchen to himself. They come back just as he’s basting the turkey for the third time, and even though they’ve already earned their toasted pumpkin seeds, immediately start working on the vegetables for the salad.

“Bitty, you had lunch yet?” Shitty pokes his head into the kitchen.

“Oh, well, you know,” Eric says, glancing at the wall clock on his way to check on the butternut squash soup bubbling on the stove. It’s almost one o’clock. “I’ve had a few bites here and there.” Those few bites were just several pieces of the fruit he’d been chopping earlier, but he’s not about to admit that to Shitty.

“Unacceptable!” Shitty declares. Before Eric can respond, he darts back into the living room where Rans and Holster are playing Ransom’s new song for Jack.

After a minute, Lardo appears in the doorway. She’s holding a plate with a generous serving of lasagna and wielding a fork like it’s a weapon or maybe a flag, Eric can’t decide.

“Bitty,” she says seriously as she approaches. “I have been tasked with a solemn duty, and I am here to fulfill it.” Lardo’s eyes zero in on a small clear area on the counter, and she hoists herself up onto it, then sticks the fork into the lasagna and offers a bite to Eric.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Eric protests. “Seriously? I’m fine.”

“You see, Bits,” Lardo explains. “Jack kept making concerned faces towards the kitchen and couldn’t concentrate on Ransom and Holster’s song debut. So before it could make our drift compatible duo sad, Shitty went to check on you. Having seen the lay of the land, as it were,” Lardo points the fork towards the full countertops and table, then looks down at the tiny space she managed to squeeze herself into, “Shitty decided that I was the woman for the job. So whaddaya say, Bits? Let me mama bird you?” She offers up the bite of lasagna again.

Before Eric can say anything, there’s a low mumble from the trio of frogs by the table. “Told him we could handle things for a while so he could eat.” It sounds suspiciously like Dex, but when Eric looks, all three are studiously concentrating on lettuce and tomatoes.

“Oh, fine,” Eric sighs. It won’t do to faint from hunger, after all. Especially not while he’s making so much food. The irony of it might be too much for even their resident hipsters Derek Nurse and Shitty Knight to handle. Besides, heaven only knows what would happen to the turkey.

He lets Lardo feed him lasagna while he bustles over three simultaneously cooking pots on the stove, occasionally giving the frogs direction. Eric feels more than a little ridiculous about it, but the show of concern from his friends, while he’s trying so hard to take care of them, reminds him of what he’s truly thankful for, and Eric feels even more inspired.

 

 

The setting sun sends golden rays through the windows, gilding the formal dining room with a warm, cozy glow. They never eat in here—where past Samwell university presidents hosted dinner parties during the Haus’ former life—but it feels right for the occasion. Lardo designed a gorgeous tablescape to show off Eric’s enticing dishes that never would’ve fit on the kitchen table, and with everyone dressed up nicely, it feels like a truly special night.

“Hausgiving tradition!” Shitty announces, once everyone is seated and sipping the red wine Jack bought (upon Robert Zimmermann’s recommendation and Eric’s dazed approval). “Everyone has to say something that they’re thankful for.”

“How can it be a Hausgiving tradition when we’ve never had a Hausgiving before?” Ransom wonders.

“Yeah, we’ve never had Bitty before,” Holster points out.

“We’re starting a new thing!” Shitty insists. “Come on, guys.”

“I’m thankful for the fact that Shitty chose this to make into a tradition,” Jack deadpans. “Instead of a pre-dinner speech about the evils of colonialism.”

“Eh, seems a bit hypocritical.” Shitty shrugs. “Since I’m planning to dive into this ‘swawesome feast with no remorse. Besides,” he tips his head towards Lardo, “I’m hardly the most qualified person in the room to talk about colonialism.”

“Point.” Lardo nods thoughtfully at Shitty, then smiles. “But I’d rather second the motion of saying what we’re thankful for. Who’s gonna start?”

“Me! I already know what I’m gonna say!” Chowder bounces in his seat and leans forward, eyes bright and earnest. “I’m thankful that college turned out to be ‘swawesome and not scary at all like I thought. Or, I mean, sometimes it’s scary, but it’s still okay, ‘cause I have you guys to help me feel better about it.”

There’s a chorus of _aww_ ’s around the table, broken by Nursey’s yelp when Chowder elbows him hard enough to get him to speak up.

“Ow! Chill, dude.” Nursey rubs his side where Chowder’s elbow hit him. “Right. I’m thankful for tonight, I guess. My parents usually have business in Europe this time of year, or they’re attending like, galas, or whatever. So this is like, the first actual Thanksgiving dinner I’ve been to since I was a kid. I can see what all the fuss is about.” He says it lightly, smiling, like it’s not the most heartbreaking thing Eric’s ever heard.

From the expressions around the table, Eric can see that he’s not the only one who’s reading between the lines. But before it gets maudlin, Dex clears his throat loudly, looking flushed but determined, drawing everyone’s attention away from Nursey.

“I’m thankful I get to play with people who make me better.” Dex is staring at the centerpiece—a profusion of autumn-colored flowers, leaves, and berries that Lardo arranged using a small pumpkin as a vase. “My aunt…the one who’s sending me here to Samwell. She watched the video of the Halloween concert and she said it’s the best she’s ever heard me play. So I’m thankful for that, I guess,” he finishes in a rush. “Your turn, Holster. Or Ransom. Whatever.”

The others turn expectantly towards the two, but Eric’s eyes linger on Dex, catching the nervous glance he sneaks at Nursey. Nursey’s lips are quirked in a tiny, soft smile, nothing like his usual distantly amused smirk, and he meets Dex’s eyes for only a second. Somehow that makes Dex simultaneously relax and blush even redder. Before Eric can wonder about it, Ransom and Holster suddenly burst into song, because of course.

 _"Thank you for the music,"_ they harmonize, holding up their forks as microphones. _"The songs I'm singing…thanks for all the joy they're bringing…."_

"Really, guys?" Eric asks. “ABBA?”

 _"Who can live without it?!"_ they continue, undeterred. _"I ask in all honesty…what would life be without a song or a dance, what are we? So I say, thank you for the music…for giving it to me."_

"I'm thankful I'm not as big of a nerd as those two are," Lardo quips, after the mingled laughter and groans die down.

"Well, excuse us for trying to provide tonight's musical entertainment." Holster grins, unabashed. "The lyrics were actually sincere, you know. I'm thankful that I get to do what I love, with people who are also doing what they love, be it music or art." He lifts a glass in a small toast towards the rest of them.

“Yeah, me too.” Ransom clinks his glass against Holster’s. “I’m kinda excited about how much I’ve been writing this year. I mean, it’s just for fun and stuff, not classical music or anything. But it feels good, you know?”

“It should, man,” Jack offers, quietly but sincerely. “That song you played earlier was great.”

“Really?” Ransom smiles, big and bright. “I’m thankful for that, then.”

“My turn, since it’s kinda similar.” Lardo tucks her hair behind an ear. Shitty is looking at her, grinning in anticipation. “I’m thankful that I’ve been getting good critiques for my art lately. And…I’m thankful that the dean recc’d me to Dr. Collins at the gallery and she invited me to be in the new artists show next year.”

The room explodes in a babble of excited congratulations. “Oh my gosh!” Eric gasps. “Lardo, that’s so wonderful!” Lardo waves them all off, laughing and blushing for the first time that Eric’s seen, and Eric resolves to bake a celebratory pie just for her really soon.

“It’s Shitty’s turn!” Lardo calls out. “Hey Shits! You’re up.”

Shitty takes his cure. “I’m thankful that, despite being the only vocal arts major in this Haus, I’m not the one who feels compelled to sing fucking ABBA out of the blue.” Ransom yelps indignantly, but otherwise lets Shitty continue. “I’m thankful for Bitty’s tea, which may have actually saved my whole damn future as a singer.” Eric smiles, then Shitty grows serious. “I’m thankful that you can make your own family. That’s what I’m really thankful for.”

Shitty nods at Eric to indicate that he’s next, which is unfortunate timing, because Eric’s throat suddenly feels tight from Shitty’s last statement. He speaks up anyway.

“Yeah,” Eric chokes out, then clears his throat. “It’s kinda like what Shitty said. I’m thankful I found a place where I could fit in. Where I could be myself, only braver. I ah…I never really had that before.” Eric’s mortified to realize that he’s tearing up, while everyone looks fondly at him. “Good gracious, don’t mind me,” he babbles. “I’m just a little emotional, is all.” He claps both hands over his flushed cheeks, as if that will hide him from his friends’ too-soft gazes, and turns quickly to his left. “Jack?”

Jack smiles at Eric, and not missing a beat, he says, “I’m thankful that this Haus really feels like a home. Now more than ever.”

That _really_ doesn’t help Eric’s overwhelmed state, so he’s desperately grateful when Shitty raises his glass. “Cheers to that!”

“Cheers!” they all exclaim. Everyone takes that as the signal to dig in, and Eric is gratified at how they appreciate every dish. The turkey is the star, of course, and he mentally crosses off his plan to make a turkey pot pie from the leftovers tomorrow, since leftovers seem rather unlikely. It still amazes Eric how this group of musicians and one tiny art student can eat like an entire fraternity crossed with a collegiate sports team. He can’t wait to tell his mama about it. She’ll just love the gorgeous pictures Jack took of the table before the hurricane known as his hausmates swept through.

The desserts are a hit as well. Eric wonders how anyone even has room for them, given how the bowl of mashed potatoes is scraped clean and not even a single green bean or roasted carrot is left. Yet the maple pumpkin pies are gone in a flash, and the sweet and spicy fruit salad disappears in a blink. That’s when they finally pause.

Ransom brews some coffee, and the rest of them make their way to the living room, groaning over being too full as they collapse on the couch and chairs. Despite all claims of not being able to eat another bite, Nursey still brings over the apple-cranberry pie with oatmeal cookie crust, nudging Chowder to bring saucers and forks, which they put carefully on a side table.

“My cause of death: Bitty’s cooking,” Holster moans, loosening his belt. “In the best way.” He’s sitting sideways on the couch, back against its arm with his legs over Shitty and Lardo’s laps.

“Goodness, I didn’t think y’all would eat so much,” Eric wonders, lounging on the rocking chair. “I thought we’d have leftovers.” He giggles at how utterly naïve he’d been.

Lardo snorts. She's eating homemade cranberry sauce out of a bowl, declaring it "a revelation" after a lifetime of the canned stuff. "You shouldn't have made everything so good if you expected leftovers, Bits," she reasons.

"Truth," Shitty agrees. He takes the throw pillow behind his back and tosses it at Jack, who's reclining drowsy-eyed on the easy chair. "It's not like we all have the self-discipline for daily exercise like this one motherfucking Adonis I could mention."

Jack smirks at him, but he looks so cozy that it comes out sweet instead of smug. “That was good, eh?” He smiles, slow and lazy, the picture of contentment hugging the pillow that Shitty just threw at him. Eric glows from the praise. The best part of the compliment, he admits to himself, is how comfortable Jack looks, how far removed from brittle. The sight is as satisfying to Eric as the scraped-clean serving platters. Maybe even more.

“Yeah, Bitty, it was sooo good,” Chowder pipes up, eyes wide for emphasis. “Especially the turkey! The best, even. Oh god, don’t tell my mom. I mean the turkey she makes is fine, I swear. Just maybe not as good as this one? Don’t tell her! Tell her I said she’s the best at Peking duck but don’t mention that stuff about the turkey because—“

“Chowder,” Eric deems it wise to interrupt at this point. “I was able to focus on the turkey because y’all were helping me so much.” He beams at Chowder, Dex, and Nursey. “And when your mom Skypes I’ll tell her how you did her proud. I had the best assistants anyone could ever ask for.”

Chowder relaxes into the giant beanbag chair he’s sharing with Nursey. “It was fun,” he says. “Right, guys?”

“Worth it,” Nursey agrees, stretching out and yawning. He gives the slight bulge of his stomach a fond little pat when his sweater rides up, making Chowder snicker. “Even if I ate so much I now have a food baby. Jack, man, you gotta help me get my six-pack back.”

“Oh, like you even had a six-pack, Nurse,” Dex mocks, lightly kicking the beanbag from his armchair.

“I think you of all people would know, Poindexter,” Nursey smirks at him, looking up with heavy-lidded eyes. Those eyes suddenly widen when he realizes what he just implied, and he’s caught so off his guard that Eric can see the exact moment he decides to brazen it out. Nursey puts a sly grin on and raises an eyebrow at Dex, a challenge.

The Dex of before would’ve scowled at his roommate’s provocations, but this Dex just laughs and picks up the gauntlet. “You standing in front of the mirror every morning and taking half an hour to pick out a damn shirt is nothing to write home about, Nurse,” he counters.

“Ooooh,” says Holster, like a third grader sensing a showdown at the playground. Shitty is waggling his eyebrows and Lardo has a dangerous glint in her eye.

“How would you rate the show, Dex?” she asks. “I’m always on the lookout for figure models.”

Dex hums thoughtfully. “Oh, I would give it a six, maybe a seven on a good day.”

"Fuck you, Poindexter, I'm at least an 8.5." Nursey tries to kick Dex's feet, but he's sunk too deep into the beanbag chair to reach them.

Dex grins toothily at him. "Nursey? _Chill_."

The role reversal cracks everyone up, while Nursey groans and tries to get Chowder to defend his honor. Chowder’s the one laughing the hardest, however, so Nursey’s out of luck on that front.

Ransom arrives with the coffee, giving Nursey a reprieve. He pokes Chowder and they get up to serve the pie, telling Eric to just sit back and relax, while Dex goes to get the tray of sugar and cream from the kitchen. Holster shifts positions so that Ransom can squeeze in between him and the arm of the couch, the last piece of the lovely scene before Eric sliding into place.

Someone turns the tv on for the football game, volume on low. Eric glances at it occasionally, so that he can mention it to Coach when he calls, but mostly he just enjoys the company. They linger over coffee and pie until only dregs and crumbs are left, but laughter and conversation are still overflowing. Everyone’s faces are relaxed, the tight lines of the past month’s stress crinkling up into smiles instead, and it’s exactly what Eric wanted for tonight. Without really planning to, he drifts off in the rocking chair, tired and satisfied, lulled by the flow of his friends’s voices all around him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eric wakes up in his own bed, tucked under the duvet with Señor Bunny in his arms. He assumes someone, probably Lardo or Shitty, must’ve woken him up and hustled him up the stairs and into his room. Eric is thankful he at least managed to get himself under the covers, though he’s less glad to realize that he hasn’t taken off anything more than his shoes. Shrugging, he goes through his morning routine and makes his way sleepily down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Expecting a sink full of dirty dishes, Eric stops short at the doorway when he’s greeted by a sparkling clean kitchen instead. Puzzled and pleased, he checks the dining room and finds it in perfect order as well. The only remnant of last night is the pumpkin vase sitting on the table, its flowers casting their reflection on the gleaming, polished mahogany. Some of his hausmates must’ve stayed up late last night to accomplish this. Smiling fondly, Eric takes the flowers and moves them into the kitchen.

It’s not until he’s sipping coffee at the kitchen table, admiring the exquisite petals of one particular rose, that the very faint edges of a memory start teasing his mind. It’s _almost_ as if he can remember strong arms picking him up and carrying him to bed, a steady heartbeat soothing him deeper into sleep, along with a familiar scent that has come to mean comfort and safety and _not alone_. Almost, but not quite. For all the haziness of the image, it might’ve been a dream. If ever there was a night for the sweetest, most pleasant of dreams, Eric thinks, it had to be last night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a few announcements:
> 
> 1\. You may have noticed that the projected final chapter count has gone up again. I'm not really adding any more plot points; it's just that the chapters are turning out longer than I expected so I have to keep on dividing them. I should maybe just change it back to the ? but I like to pretend I still have control of my life, so just let me have this. (cue hysterical laughter)
> 
> 2\. Now might be a good time to remind everyone to reread the author's note at the beginning, specifically Item 1. Keep in mind that this fic is just the first part of the story _Second Chance Sonata_ , hence the title. We are coming to the end of Part One, and there will be a resolution, just not The Resolution, ya get me?
> 
> 3\. There will be other stories in this 'verse. God help us all.
> 
> **EDIT (APR. 2, 2016): Guys, I'm sorry. I won't be able to post an update this week due to unexpected houseguests + family health crisis. Hopefully, things will be back on track by next week and you can expect Ch. 9 by then. I miss our fluffly little 'verse and I definitely wanna get back to it as soon as I can, so hang in there. And send a few positive thoughts my way if you can.**


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